Victor's Daughters
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Victor loves his children dearly. But in retrospect, perhaps being married to a dead woman would have been a lot less of a headache.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I usually don't go in for these long explanatory author's notes, but this time I feel I need to explain myself a bit. I wanted this story to be a one-shot, but then I realized that it would have been way too long. So I decided to go with several short chapters. I've been noticing the basic themes of a lot of the new "Corpse Bride" fanfiction, and I wanted to do something different. This story is pretty much character-based, about a bit of a tough time in Victor's life. One doesn't always need the supernatural to be involved to have a rough go of it. I always thought that part of the oddness of the "Corpse Bride" story is how quickly life might have gone back to normal after the events of the film. Victor and Victoria simply begin living out their ordinary lives as originally planned--living as a loving married couple, raising a family, going to work, and so forth. And yet, there are still the ramifications of the movie's events. So don't expect too much action-packed rolicking fun with this story is basically what I'm saying. :D I'm going for my usual, I suppose--a bit of an emotional character study. I'm also a bit loath to be using OC's, because I know how irritating they can be. If any of the new characters here get into that territory, please let me know. Also: the title is a bit of an Easter Egg for book enthusiasts. It's a play on two titles--fun nerd points to all who get the reference. :D Please excuse my windiness, and I hope you all enjoy this.

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O---O

**Victor's Daughters**

"Come along, darling, you're all right. It's nothing," Victor said, trying to be comforting even as he made an attempt to cover his slight feeling of irritation. As he spoke, he gently tightened his grip on his daughter's elbow to keep her from falling down. She'd already taken one tumble on the way up to the house from the garden, the consequence of affecting a severe limp to show him how horribly her leg had been damaged. As though the initial short bout of hysteria and the subsequent whining hadn't been enough. The two of them had spent the past hour or so in the garden looking for butterflies, as they did often. The sweetness and tranquility of the little outing had been effectively shattered when Mary had tripped while enthusiastically going after a monarch fluttering near the roses. And, of course, she managed to land not on the soft earth that carpeted most of the garden, but on the one spot that had jagged flagstones. Because that, as Victor had learned, is the way that it works with children. It could have been worse, though, all things considered. While Victor, from what must by now have been a thousand past experiences, knew that skinned knees could really hurt and was not without sympathy, he also thought that she was taking it just a little too far. Though he had to admit, the sight of a four-year-old staggering about like an exaggerated caricature of an old lady (or Quasimodo, perhaps) was rather funny, in an odd way. Victor decided he'd laugh later--at the moment, it was anything but amusing.

"It's just a little bump, Mary. You're fine," he said, again using that slightly high-pitched and sing-song tone that is often employed with young children. And is often laced with exasperation.

"But it _hurts_," she replied in what was almost a wail, threatening a bout of fake crying (Victor, with practice, had learned to tell the difference). Mary certainly had a flair for the dramatic, Victor would give her that much. Her face, a slightly thinner and more elongated version of Victoria's, was still streaked with tears from earlier, and her dark hair was coming loose from its oversized floppy (and now awfully crooked) white bow. The white pinafore that she wore over her dress was a bit muddy about the hem, and there was a large hole in the knee of her white stockings that bore the dirt from her fall, as well as the tiny bit of blood that Victor hadn't been able to get rid of with his handkerchief. Such an awful lot of white, especially for spending a morning in the garden. After the initial panic of seeing his child injured, Victor's first thought had been, _You simply had to dress her in white, Victoria._ Mary really did look a mess, even though Victor knew that the show of pain was probably an act.

He glanced at the house. Twenty feet, maybe, to the front door, and it seemed as though the distance stretched to a mile. He sighed, and attempted to keep walking.

"I know, but we're almost--oh please no, not again!" Victor interrupted himself as his daughter once again started to sink to the ground, apparently too injured to go on. For the moment they were at a standstill there on the lawn, Mary halfway to the ground and Victor standing there fruitlessly hanging onto her arm.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Victor knew that he probably shouldn't be allowing Mary to carry on so. But he wasn't good with confrontation, and, sadly, that seemed to extend even to confrontations with children. It was the same for Victoria, really. Still, he usually preferred to let Victoria be the disciplinarian--even though Victoria's methods of discipline made Glinda the Good look like a hard-hearted monster. At that thought, Victor shook his head a little and decided that he really needed to get back into the habit of reading books for grown-ups every now and then.

With another sigh, he looked down at Mary. He was very tired of this, and had no desire to get into an argument about whether she could walk or not. So, as he did often when situations boiled down to arguing or giving in, Victor gave in.

Bending, he slid his hands under Mary's arms and pulled her to her feet. Before she could languish again from the pain of it all, or commence with the crocodile tears as the chicken-like squawk she let out threatened, Victor scooped her up into his arms. His mouth set into a grim line, he settled Mary against his hip, holding her in the crook of his elbow, and started again for the house. Yet again, Victor had proven powerless when faced with a crying girl.

"I'm all right now," Mary informed him. When he didn't respond, she wiped her eyes on his lapel and sniffled. Then she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"I'm all right now," she repeated, her voice the perfect example of contrite childishness.

"Mmm-hmm," Victor replied, refusing to be swayed. Having got what she wanted (namely, an acknowledgment as well as a free ride back to the house), Mary wrapped her arms around his neck and fell into a contented silence.

Victor had only gone a few steps when he remembered his sketchbook and butterfly net. Stopping and turning, he glanced back at the garden. There they were, both lying on the ground near the spot where Mary had taken her fall.

"I've forgotten my things," he said with another exasperated sigh. He didn't realize he'd said that aloud until Mary turned to look as well.

"You forgot your things," she repeated, pointing helpfully. Victor stood there for a moment, indecisive.

"Perhaps I should go back and get them."

"Yes," Mary replied.

"Or I suppose I could get them later."

"Yes."

"It must be almost lunchtime."

"Yes."

"But I really don't want to leave them out in the open. I'll go get them."

"Yes."

"You're quite agreeable all of a sudden."

"Yes."

Victor allowed himself a small smile as he headed back toward the garden at a brisk walk. Then he encountered a problem: how to bend to the ground while keeping a hold on Mary. With a bit of maneuvering he transferred her to his back, where she held on to his neck like a baby monkey.

"Hold this, will you please?" he asked her over his shoulder, holding out the sketchbook. Mary took it from him, whacking him in the ear with the sharp corner in the process. Then she kneed him in the kidneys while trying to keep her balance on his back. Wincing a little, Victor picked up the butterfly net and stood.

"All right, then?" he asked, a little winded.

"I'm slipping," Mary informed him. It came out sounding more like a comment than a warning. Indeed, she was slipping, and nearly choked him when she tightened her grip to keep from falling off his back. In doing so, she lost her hold on the sketchbook. It hit him in the face before it fell to the ground again. Quickly Victor looped his arms under Mary's knees, now carrying her piggyback style. He also dropped the net.

"You dropped the net," Mary said into his ear.

"Yes, thank you," he murmured, surprised to hear it come out more like a grumble. There was a silence.

"Why don't you put me down?" Mary finally said, as though she'd been suggesting it from the start. Victor cocked an eyebrow and twisted his head to look at her.

"Oh, you can walk now, can you?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, as though the big dramatic display from earlier had never happened.

"Fine then. Down you get." Victor crouched down and Mary slid off his back. She picked up the butterfly net (which was almost as tall as she was) and the sketchbook, smiled at him winningly, and then started for the house.

Victor watched her go, shaking his head. As he stood he sighed again, then rubbed his sore ear. His stomach gave a bit of a rumble. It really was nearing lunchtime. After straightening his jacket, he took off at a trot to catch Mary up.

Mary got to the front door a few seconds before he did, and she was already talking. When Victor neared the porch steps, he saw whom she was talking to. Lydia, his and Victoria's oldest daughter, was sitting in one of the gray and weather-beaten wicker chairs on the porch, an open book on her lap. The chair was situated in the corner near where the parlor's bay window extended from the house, and at this time of day it was almost completely in shadow--explaining why Victor hadn't noticed her sitting there before. She looked almost exactly as Victor had when he was twelve, except for the obvious difference of her being a girl. Though Victor was reasonably sure he'd never affected the completely disinterested, bored, and almost world-weary expression that Lydia usually wore. Not when he was twelve, anyway.

"I fell in the garden," Mary was saying as Victor walked up behind her. "And then I hit Father with the sketchbook." Victor couldn't decide whether to be hurt or amused by how nonchalant she sounded about it.

"I know, I saw," Lydia replied, fiddling idly with the high collar of her navy-blue dress with one hand. Then she looked up at Victor.

"Why didn't you put her down in the first place?" she asked. Mary looked at him as well, and they both waited for him to answer.

It was on the tip of his tongue to come back with a question of his own--namely, why Lydia hadn't come over to help if she'd been sitting there watching. But Victor's impulse to argue fled as quickly as it arrived.

"I have no idea," he replied truthfully. Both of his children seemed satisfied with that. After all, Victor realized, he probably gave them the impression that he spent most of his life without any idea of what he was doing. The moroseness brought on by that thought was alleviated a bit by another realization--Victor might be clueless quite a bit of the time, but his children liked him anyway. That was a bit warming.

Managing a small smile, which both Lydia and Mary returned, Victor opened the front door and gestured them into the house.


	2. Chapter 2

Instead of finding lunch when the three of them walked into the house, they found an empty hall and a silent parlor.

"Hello?" Victor called quietly, looking around. There was no sign of movement anywhere. Victoria and the two other children, Anne and Catherine, had all been in the parlor when Victor and Mary had headed out to the garden. The three of them spent just about every morning in the parlor, usually sewing. It seemed odd that they'd have gone somewhere else—the Van Dort household was not one to upset the daily routine.

"Victoria?" he asked the silence, poking his head into the parlor. Nothing.

"Where is everyone?" Lydia asked, setting her book down on the small table near the staircase. "Mother?"

"I fell down," Mary offered proudly, peering into the dining room on the other side of the front hall. Receiving no response, she turned and looked up at Victor.

"Let me go and put these away," he said, taking the sketchbook and butterfly net from Mary, "and then we can see where everyone is." With that, he set off down the hall toward his study.

"I'll come too," Mary said. Victor stopped to wait as she pattered over to him. Then she turned back to Lydia, who was still standing near the foot of the stairs.

"Are you coming?" Mary asked her. Mary was the type to make every activity, no matter how mundane, a group project. Barring that, she liked to know where everyone in the family was at any given time. Victor supposed it made her feel secure. _She might be a trifle dramatic, _he thought as he looked down at the top of her head, _but she's very sweet. After a fashion._

Judging by the look she gave her youngest sister, Lydia didn't share Victor's unspoken opinion.

"No, I think not," she said, picking up her book again. "I think Father can find the study on his own."

"But where will you be?" Mary was not to be deterred. Lydia made a show of sighing and casting her eyes at the ceiling.

"Where do I _always_ go to read?" she asked, inclining her head toward the parlor door.

"I don't know. You read all over the place. It's all you do," Mary was quick to answer. And Lydia was even quicker to take offense.

"Well, _forgive_ me for enjoying books," she spat. The tone was far too extreme, in Victor's opinion. After all, Mary was only four. But before he could say anything, Mary jumped in.

"Of course I forgive you," she said agreeably. For a moment Lydia sputtered. Then, hands on hips, she sighed gustily and glowered at Mary.

"All right, that's enough," Victor said, raising a hand toward Lydia in a pre-emptive "be quiet" gesture. "Please, let's not get angry. Let's be pleasant, shall we?"

"I _am_ pleasant," Lydia replied through clenched teeth. She pointed a finger at Mary. "_She's_ just irritating."

"Now, there's no need for that," Victor said, trying to keep his tone mild. He glanced helplessly around, then up the stairs. Where in the world was Victoria? He could really use her help at the moment. After all, these sort of pointless arguments _never _seemed to get off the ground when Victoria was present. _What makes me special?_ Victor couldn't help wondering.

Illustrating precisely the kind of ridiculousness that Victor was usually privy to (and apparently incapable of stopping), things began disintegrating quickly into a shouting match.

"I _forgave_ you!" Mary cried, insulted.

"I didn't say I was sorry for anything!"

"Yes! You asked me to forgive you!"

"Don't you understand _anything_? That's not what that means."

"Not what what means?"

"'Forgive me.'"

"_I already did!_"

"No! I was being sarcastic."

"What?"

Lydia looked ready to explode. "Oh, never _mind_! You are such a little--"

Victor, who had been watching the two of them bicker as though he was watching a singularly upsetting tennis match, had had enough. Tucking the net and the sketchbook under one arm, he stepped in between them.

"Stop right there. Don't _dare_ call your sister a name. I mean it," Victor scolded in a threatening tone, pointing a finger at Lydia. Then he pointed at Mary with his other hand.

"And _you_," he said in that same tone, "no shouting. You've shouted enough for today. You are both acting completely mad, and I _will not_ have it." Most fathers would have been shouting themselves at that point, but Victor was not a shouter by nature. Instead, he went the opposite route—low, quiet, and threatening. Honestly—had he really, not five minutes ago, been thinking how much he appreciated them? Now he felt as though he could sell them both to some passing gypsies without any qualms at all.

There was a silence. The girls looked both hurt and surprised, and immediately Victor felt guilty. He very rarely scolded, and the tone he'd just used had surprised even him. What had just happened was Victor's version of flying completely off the handle. He was usually even-tempered, but today...Victor closed his eyes for a moment. In twelve years, he'd _never _spoken to the children that way, even when they more than likely deserved it. The fight went out of him completely.

"I'm sorry," he told them, dropping his arms. He glanced back and forth between them, and continued in a milder tone. "But I'm serious. No more shouting at one another."

Lydia and Mary nodded slowly. Much to Victor's dismay, they were both staring at him as though they'd never seen him before. Victor looked at his feet.

_Why did I react that way?_ he asked himself. And he didn't have an answer.

"What's going _on_ down there?" called a voice, cutting through the awkward little tableau in the hall. The three of them all looked up to see Catherine on the landing, regarding them with a puzzled sort of look. If Lydia was purely a Van Dort in looks, then Catherine, the second-eldest, was thoroughly an Everglot. She looked quite a bit like Victoria—a similarity that in Victor's opinion made her much prettier than the average Everglot—except for her fair hair, which was a feature that Victor and Victoria had never quite figured out. Actually, Catherine was truly a shorter, plumper, and rounder-faced version of her mother. Though when she widened her eyes and curled her mouth in bemusement, as she was doing now, she definitely called Finis to mind.

"What's going on?" she repeated, putting a hand on the banister. Instead of waiting for an answer, she took a breath and kept right on talking in a very loud and urgent voice.

"You won't believe what happened to Anne. Oh, she looks _dreadful_. Mother was hoping you'd come back inside. She almost sent me out to get you. We're upstairs in the washroom. Oh, wait until you see."

"What's wrong?" Victor asked, immediately alarmed. But he was overlapped by Mary, who put a finger to her lips and told Catherine in a stage whisper,

"Ssh! Father just said not to shout."


	3. Chapter 3

Victor's stomach was all in anxious knots as he led the way up the staircase. Much to his irritation, he hadn't been able to get many details out of Catherine, who was trotting along at his side--only that Anne had hurt herself somehow. Beyond that, all he got was that she looked "positively _dreadful_" and whatever had happened "could only have happened to Anne." Their own curiosity piqued, Mary and Lydia trailed along behind them.

As he walked, Victor could feel his irritation growing, even though he never would have admitted it. Really, did Catherine have to make a dramatic mystery out of absolutely everything? Usually Victor didn't mind, perhaps even viewed that habit of hers as a bit of a game, but today it was wearing on his patience. A mixture of worry and irritation on an empty stomach doesn't do much good for stomach acid, as Victor was quickly finding out.

_It can't be that much of an emergency,_ Victor assured himself as he neared the washroom next to the nursery. Noticing that he still had the sketchbook and butterfly net, he paused for a moment to set them on the floor near the nursery door. _Even Catherine wouldn't be messing about like this if it were something serious._ Still, he was worried about what he might find. He knew it was wrong to play favorites with the children--he loved them all, there was no doubt about that--but Anne was the one he got along with the most. It was odd, the way that children grow into individual people. Perhaps it was simply that he and Anne were quite similar. In any case, Victor definitely, for whatever reason, directed a lot of his paternal worry toward her in particular.

"What's happened?" Victor asked the moment he walked through the open washroom door. Then, after considering, he took a step backward and knocked on the doorframe, belatedly announcing himself. He also stepped on Lydia's foot, having noticed too late that the girls were crowded behind him in the doorway.

Anne and Victoria both glanced over at him. Their faces were nearly identical, and even though Victor saw them both every day, it always made him jump a bit to see them next to one another (people reacted much the same way to himself and Lydia, actually). Anne was sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Victoria bent over her, holding a washcloth over one side of Anne's face, obviously acting as doctor. It was a type of scene that Victor had been witness to many times over the years--Victoria patching up Anne after one mishap or another. At the moment, Victoria's expression was a blend of both concern and the set expression of one who had done this many times before.

"It's not too serious," Victoria assured him as he walked over to her side. "Just a bruise. Did you have a pleasant time in the garden?"

"I fell down, but I'm all right now," Mary answered for him as she squeezed past her sisters into the washroom. She leaned against the tub at Anne's side. "What happened to you?" she asked, twisting her head as she tried to get a peek under the washcloth.

"A little accident," Anne said, sounding embarrassed. She wasn't the type to enjoy excess attention of any kind, and it was obviously making her quite uncomfortable to have the entire family crammed into the small washroom around her.

"I've never seen anything like it," Victoria remarked to Victor in an undertone so that Anne couldn't hear.

"But what happened?" he asked, watching her adjust the washcloth on Anne's face.

"She hit herself in the face with the armoir door," Victoria replied, matter-of-fact yet kind. "Really, it isn't funny, Lydia," she added over her shoulder, having heard Lydia suppress a snicker at the explanation.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Lydia said immediately, sounding as though she meant it. Victoria nodded before turning her attention back to her injured daughter. Victor winced before looking at Anne, who was blushing a little and keeping her eyes on the floor.

"Goodness," he said. "How did that happen?"

"It was _very_ odd," Catherine cut in, obviously not wanting to be left out. "It was almost as if the armoir attacked her. I've never seen an armoir do that before. And it's not as though she did anything to _it_..."

"Forgive me," Victor said, holding up a hand. "but I still don't quite understand." He looked at Victoria for help.

"We were in the parlor, and I asked Anne to fetch me an embroidery hoop from the armoir," Victoria explained. "She went to open it, and the door stuck. You know how it sticks sometimes."

Victor nodded, having the feeling that he knew where this was going. Anne had inherited Victor's black hair and extremely pale complexion. She'd also, unfortunately, inherited his natural grace. Or rather, lack thereof. Hardly a day went by that she didn't bump into a doorframe, trip over a throw rug, or run her hip into the hall table. It wasn't that she was clumsy, exactly. It was more that she tended to walk about lost in a reverie--a daydreamy sort of place where end tables didn't exist. She was also prone to rather bizarre accidents--being the one person in the household besides Victor who somehow always managed to be the one to step on the extremely slippery section of a polished floor, for instance.

"Well," Victoria continued, taking a brief glance under one edge of the washcloth, "She tugged on it, trying to get it to open..." She trailed off, as though the rest of the story told itself.

"And _then_--and this is the really quite odd part--and _then _the door simply sprang open and hit her right in the face," Catherine finished. "Oh, it was awful! I thought for certain she'd lost her eye. The doorknob hit her just there," she said, bringing her finger just under her eye. Then she brought her hands to the sides of her face dramatically. "Goodness, it was _frightening_!"

"So _that's_ what you were yelling about," Lydia said, looking at Catherine. "I heard you all the way out on the porch, shouting about Anne being blind."

"Why didn't you come in to help, then?" Catherine asked. Lydia shrugged.

"I've learned to ignore it when you go into hysterics," she said cooly. "It happens so often, it's almost like the boy who cried wolf."

"It is not!" Catherine cried, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It is too."

"Ladies," Victoria said. Her voice was quiet, but there was a definite warning in it. That one word, along with the long stare she gave each of them in turn, was enough to stop the bickering. Victor glanced back and forth between the three of them. _Why doesn't that work for me?_ he wondered, giving Victoria an almost awed look.

"I didn't hear anyone yelling," Mary said after a moment, sounding as though she resented missing out on the excitement.

"Most likely because you were yelling, too," Victor replied. Mary nodded, not catching the slight scold in his tone.

"I suppose it's just been one of those mornings," Victoria told him, again speaking in a low voice.

"Indeed," he replied. For some reason, that made them both smile at one another briefly. Perhaps it was comraderie bred by having a brood of completely mad and accident-prone children. Very _loved_ mad and accident-prone children, but still...enough was enough after a while.

"Mother?" Mary asked suddenly. Victoria glanced down at her.

"Yes?"

"Why are you holding a piece of meat on Anne's face?"

Victor raised his eyebrows. What was she talking about? He leaned over Victoria's shoulder, taking a closer look at the washcloth. Indeed, it was covering a raw slice of beef. He hadn't noticed before.

"Why _are _you holding raw meat against her face?" Victor asked, rather curious himself.

"It helps to keep the bruise from swelling," Victoria explained.

"Oh," Victor and Mary said at the same time.

"That's not what we're having for lunch, is it?" Lydia asked, eyeing the piece of beef. No one paid her any attention.

"Let's have a look," Victoria said gently, taking the improvised poultice off of her daughter's face. After taking said look, she winced and made a sympathy noise in the back of her throat. Victor leaned in for a glimpse as well.

"It...doesn't look that bad," he offered, lying through his teeth. In reality, it looked as though somebody had smeared a mixture of ink and blueberry juice all over Anne's left cheekbone. It was already swelling a bit, too, making Victor doubt the medicinal powers of raw meat.

"Does it hurt much?" Victoria asked.

"No, not badly," Anne replied in a strained tone of voice. Victoria ran a motherly hand over Anne's hair before reaching to the sink for another wet cloth. With it, she gently wiped Anne's face to get rid of the juices left behind by the meat. No matter how gentle she was, though, Anne still winced and jumped a bit even as she tried to be stoic.

"Because I'm not eating meat that's been on Anne's face," Lydia continued. Victoria and Victor shared an exasperated look.

"Lydia, please," Victor said, since Victoria was busy. He tried to mimic her tone from earlier. Whether it worked or not coming from him, he couldn't tell--Lydia merely gave a little shrug of her shoulders in response.

"My face is clean," Anne said thinly, sounding almost apologetic.

"Look!" Mary cried, pointing at Anne's bruise. Startled, Victoria pulled the cloth away.

"For heaven's sake, Mary, don't poke out her other eye," Lydia scolded.

"There's a little picture in the middle of all of the purple," Mary continued, ignoring her sister. She seemed extremely interested as she stood almost nose-to-nose with Anne, examining her face. "See?"

Everyone, it seemed, found this to be rather fascinating. They were all quiet as they stared at Anne, who was blushing and fidgeting. Evidently, she had managed to hit herself hard enough for the doorknob of the armoir to leave an imprint on her face. A small rose, matching the design of the armoir's carving, was clearly visible in the middle of the ugly bruise. Catherine had been right, Victor realized. This sort of thing really only _could_ happen to Anne.

"You should hit yourself on the other cheek with the drawer of our bureau tomorrow, Anne," Lydia remarked at length, cocking her head as she regarded her. "I think a little windmill design would look nice opposite the flower." By the puzzled look that Anne gave her, it was clear she couldn't tell whether Lydia was serious or not.

"All right," Victoria said, straightening up. She helped Anne to her feet, and then picked up the washcloth-wrapped piece of beef from the edge of the sink. "I believe it's almost time for lunch."

The children filed out of the washroom, Anne a bit wobbly, leaving Victor and Victoria alone for a moment.

"This has been quite the morning," Victor remarked.

"Yes."

"I scolded Mary and Lydia," he blurted, the words coming out of nowhere. He felt as though he was a child again himself, admitting to some petty crime in the hope that punishment wouldn't be too severe. Victoria paused, then put an affectionate hand on his arm.

"They didn't seem too upset about it," she said. "Don't worry yourself over it." It was quite amazing, how Victoria was able to read almost precisely what he was feeling, and that they could communicate so much with one another with so few words. Yet Victor wasn't completely comforted. He still felt...well, _off_, somehow. Victoria patted his arm once more, then headed out into the hallway.

"I must catch Mary," she said over her shoulder. "She can't go to table looking that way. Really, she must have taken quite the fall--she looks a dreadful mess. Perhaps all of the white wasn't such a good idea."


	4. Chapter 4

What a morning.

_What a morning._

Victor sat, alone, in a leather armchair, staring out of the window. He'd banished himself to the study without lunch. Although the rest of the family was probably too occupied to notice his self-imposed punishment. He felt very guilty. And very, very stupid.

What in the world had he been thinking when he left that butterfly net right in the doorway to the nursery? Would it have hurt him to just carry the thing into the washroom? If he had, the family doctor, Dr. Van Ekel, wouldn't have had to come over and tend to Lydia's ankle. Luckily she hadn't broken it when she'd tripped over the butterfly net, merely sprained it. It seemed she'd managed to break her fall a bit with Catherine, who had met the nursery floor face-first. And got a split lip in the bargain. But then again--why had they all decided to make the pre-lunch freshening up a group activity? He would have had time to move the silly net if they'd given him time.

_No, _he thought, rubbing his temples. _It wasn't their fault. I did something asinine all on my own._ That thought, though, really didn't help.

Victor had stuck around long enough to hover uselessly while Victoria had calmed the children down, sent Mr. Reed, their man-of-all work, for the doctor, and then to hover uselessly some more while Dr. Van Ekel arrived and assessed the damage. Mrs. Reed, the housekeeper, had taken Anne and Mary into the kitchen to keep them occupied. And Victor had simply slunk away, trying not to be noticed.

He'd never forget the look on Dr. Van Ekel's face when Victoria had explained how all of these injuries had been sustained--tripping over a misplaced butterfly net, being knocked over, and getting hit with a wayward piece of furniture (the doctor had had a glimpse of Anne on the way upstairs). Dr. Van Ekel had seemed somewhat disbelieving, suspicious, even, but he hadn't said a word. Victor would also never forget the look that Victoria had given him when he'd had to admit that he'd been the one to leave the butterfly net lying about. Actually, it had been more of a Look, with a capital "L". But she hadn't said a word, either. The silence, in Victor's opinion, was quite a bit worse than being dressed down.

So he'd made his escape into the study. It seemed like the last safe place. Victor wasn't one to gamble, so he had no real idea about how odds worked, but still he figured that the odds of four children all managing to injure themselves in the space of an hour were pretty slim. Though Lydia and Catherine's injuries had been his fault. They all had a right to be annoyed with him. And they'd certainly all seemed quite annoyed when he'd left them.

Perhaps...perhaps he should have stayed to help instead of fleeing with his guilt and embarrassment. No, perhaps not. Fleeing was easier. Being alone was easier. Victor rather missed being alone, at least once in a while. Real privacy was a hard thing to find when one had a family. When it had been just him and Victoria, they'd both taken some time each day to be by themselves, alone with just their thoughts. But not anymore. Now there never seemed to be any time for privacy, for quiet. There was always something--this had just been a more dramatic day than most.

There was always something.

A sudden knock on the door startled Victor out of his brooding. _Always something, _was the thought still echoing in his head, even as he called out to ask who was there.

"Mrs. Reed, sir," came the housekeeper's voice through the closed door. "The doctor is waiting to be shown out."

"I'll be right there," Victor said, hauling himself out of the armchair. On his way out the door, he took a look over his shoulder, surveying the study. His own little world, in the midst of a bustling household. He wished he could spend more time in it.

But now, as much as he didn't care to, it was time to acknowledge the world again.

O---O

"Thank you very much for coming," Victor said as he walked Dr. Van Ekel, a stout and tiny-footed older man, to the door. This man had been the one to deliver all of Victor and Victoria's children, and they'd kept him on as the family doctor. Despite the fact that neither of them could stand him. Still, out of the three doctors in the village, Dr. Van Ekel was the only one that didn't double as a barber or a taxidermist. So the Van Dorts put up with him.

"It's been one of those days," Victor continued lamely, not quite sure why he was bothering to try and make conversation. The doctor seemed to be having none of it--he just walked along, looking to be lost in thought. Perhaps to allay his own guilt, Victor kept going. "Accidents, you know how children are...getting into little scrapes...It's really no one's fault. Accidents."

The doctor didn't speak. He just stood there next to Victor, staring at the door with pursed lips. The atmosphere was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. Finally Dr. Van Ekel turned and eyed Victor up and down.

"I'm not one to tell a man what to do in his own home," Dr. Van Ekel said, his hand on the doorknob. "And truly, you never struck me as the type...But..." He trailed off. Victor watched as he pulled the door open. It was clear the doctor was thinking about whether to continue or not.

"Excuse me?" Victor asked, completely confused. The doctor merely shook his head. Halfway out the door he turned and said in an undertone,

"You might want to try a bit harder to keep control of yourself. But as I said, it's your business," Dr. Van Ekel finished with a shrug. With that, he was out the door and onto the porch.

It took Victor a moment to fully appreciate what the doctor meant. Once he had it, he gasped, and took off onto the porch himself. Dr. Van Ekel was already nearly to his carriage.

"Just a moment!" Victor said. "You don't believe that _I_...You can't possibly..." Victor was incapable of finishing a coherent argument, he was so shocked and offended.

"It's not any of my business," Dr. Van Ekel called over his shoulder as he climbed into the carriage.

"But...I...I didn't...Impossible..."

It was no use. Victor dropped his arms to his sides and slumped his shoulders, watching the doctor's carriage head away down the drive. Doubtless, he was on his way to relate the entire visit to his butler in strictest confidence. Which meant, of course, that the butler would be spreading the story about the three injured Van Dort girls as quickly as he could. Things always happened that way here. The town was just too small. And nosy.

Wonderful. By teatime the entire village would be getting the news that Victor Van Dort, contrary to popular belief, was in reality some sort of malicious brute straight from the pages of a dime novel (not that anyone _read_ that sort of thing in this village, of course).

For quite a few moments Victor just stood in the drive, staring at his shoes and wondering why life had to be such a big, dramatic mess.


	5. Chapter 5

Wondering how this day could possibly degenerate any farther, Victor slumped back up the drive and into the house. That low-grade pulse of inexplicable annoyance was creeping up again. Well, it wasn't quite inexplicable anymore--but nevertheless, it wasn't a feeling that Victor was accustomed to. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the closed front door, considering beating his head against it repeatedly. Soon enough he decided that really wouldn't solve anything, as satisfying as it would be--all he'd achieve would probably be a bruise to rival Anne's.

Victor opened his eyes. He'd just thought of a better, safer, and probably more enjoyable alternative to concussing himself--talking to Victoria. She wouldn't _believe_ what the doctor had said. Perhaps shared indignation would mean she'd be less annoyed about that morning's drama.

He started up the stairs feeling considerably cheered, all things considered. Victoria would be able to figure out what was bothering him. She was always calm, always composed, ever practical and sensible. Steady, that's what she was. _She _never had fits of indecisiveness and worry the way that Victor did. Yet she was also quite perceptive. Victor had no doubt that she'd figured out that something had been worrying away at him lately. She'd probably realized it even before he himself had, even though she hadn't mentioned it.

A talk with Victoria. That's precisely what Victor needed at the moment. He decided to look into the nursery first, since that was where Victoria had been last. Besides, he should probably check on the children. And apologize for maiming them inadvertently.

When Victor reached the nursery, he found the door open. He knocked on it gently before entering.

"Hello," Lydia said, looking up from her book. She was sitting with Anne at the small table in the middle of the room, the remains of lunch on the table between them. She sat with her left leg stretched out to one side, a cloth bandage wrapped around her ankle. Mary was tucked up in her little bed over by the window, having her afternoon nap. Catherine was nowhere in sight. Strange, considering that lunch had come and gone--she was not one to miss out on food.

"I'm terribly sorry about your leg," Victor said immediately, walking over to them. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Except that I can't walk on it," she replied, deadpan. "The doctor gave me this." Lydia turned and pointed to a cane that hung on the back rung of her chair.

"I'm sorry," Victor said again. Lydia merely shrugged a little.

"Getting downstairs should be quite the project, I'd say," she told him, turning her eyes back to her book. Obviously, the plan was to let Victor wallow in his guilt for a while. So he turned his attention to Anne, instead.

"And you?" he asked, eyeing her bruised face sympathetically. Anne raised an embarrassed hand to cover the left side of her face, and toyed with some bread crusts on her plate.

"I'm fine, too," she said. "It doesn't hurt too badly. I'll be all right."

Victor nodded. Quite on impulse, he reached out and patted her gently on the head. Then, thinking that Lydia might feel left out, he did the same to her. The gesture made Anne smile a tiny smile. Lydia, on the other hand, stared at him as though he'd lost his mind. Oh, well. One out of two wasn't bad.

"Where's Catherine?" he asked, glancing around. "How is she?"

Lydia smirked slightly before pointing to the far end of the room.

"She's in the wardrobe."

"In the wardrobe?" Admittedly, Victor hadn't been expecting that one.

"She wanted us to pass her lunch through the door," Lydia said, nodding. "But I said no. My good shoes are in there."

Victor glanced over. The large wardrobe that graced the nursery had once belonged to Victoria, and it was quite a massive piece of furniture. It had been one of the childrens' favorite hiding places when they were younger--keeping Victor and Victoria constantly worried that they'd end up locking themselves in by mistake.

"She shut herself in," Anne offered quietly. "After Mother and the doctor left. She said she was ashamed of how she looked, and that she was shutting herself away forever."

"She was quite dramatic about it, too," Lydia added disdainfully. "Actually, she seemed upset that we didn't try to stop her. I say let her live in the wardrobe--it will give us more room in here."

"But all of our things are in there," Anne pointed out. "And she won't let us open the door." Lydia shrugged.

"Small price to pay, if you ask me."

"Now, now," Victor said, glancing back and forth between them. Then he was inspired. "Your sister is napping," he said, pointing to Mary. The children, unfortunately, seemed unimpressed.

"Does Mother know she's in there?" he asked with a gesture toward the wardrobe, thinking that if Victoria had already failed at coaxing Catherine out, then further attempts on his part might just make things worse. The response was a round of head-shaking. Well, he might as well give it a try, then.

After hesitating a moment, Victor raised a hand and rapped gently on the wardrobe door with his knuckles.

"Yes?" came Catherine's small, teary voice.

"Are you all right?" Victor asked. She said something in return, but it was so quiet he couldn't hear.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you," he told her, pressing his ear against the door. Lydia was snickering quietly to herself on the other side of the room, and Victor chose to ignore her.

"I said I'm _never _going to come out!" Catherine cried, her voice still sounding muffled. Her words were slightly slurred as well, probably owing to the fact that her lower lip must have been rather swollen. Victor pursed his lips, wondering how he should go about solving this one.

"Dear," he said gently and reasonably, "I know you're not feeling your best, but you can't live in the--"

"I _won't _come out!" she insisted, cutting Victor off. "I look dreadful. My mouth hurts _horribly_, and I'm _ugly_! I'm staying in here forever!" Victor was quite surprised that she didn't add, "So there!"

"You won't look that way forever--it will heal."

"Until it does, I'm going to live in the wardrobe! I don't want anybody to see me! I can never go out in front of people _again_!" Catherine wailed, despondent.

Victor sighed. This was going nowhere.

"Oh, just leave her in there," Lydia finally said, waving a hand dismissively. "It will be quieter around here with her behind a few inches of wood."

"How dare you!" Catherine yelled from inside the wardrobe.

"Why don't you hide yourself in the attic, like normal crazy people do?" Lydia called back. Victor half-turned to face her.

"Normal crazy people?" he asked.

"Please shush, I'm asleep," Mary told them in a whisper from her bed, sounding completely alert. Victor shook his head a bit. _They're all mad. Completely mad, _he thought, before turning his attention back to Catherine.

"All right, " he said, trying to speak into the keyhole, "I won't make you come out. Just be careful not to lock yourself in." Catherine let out a gusty sigh. He could practically _hear _her rolling her eyes at him.

"I'm not a _complete_ ninny, Father," she told him. Victor lifted his gaze to the ceiling briefly.

"I never said you were. I was only...Never mind," he said, not wanting to bother. This was not what he'd come upstairs intending to do. With a sigh, he started out of the room. When he got to the doorway, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

"Where did Mother go?" he asked, realizing he had no idea where Victoria was.

"Her room, I think," Lydia replied. She was keeping her eyes on her book, and sounded annoyed at the continued interruptions.

"She's changing her dress," Mary offered, her eyes still closed.

"Thank you," Victor said, pulling the door shut behind him as he headed out into the hall. "I'll see you all at teatime. And go to sleep, Mary."

---------------------------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

This is one of the weaker chapters, I think. I did my best with it, but I still don't think my intent is coming through--it's not furthering the plot, but getting the idea of what "normal" life is like for Victor post-movie (it's supposed to play as a plot point later on). This will probably be easier to understand (and easier to fix up) once the story's finished. But any suggestions on clarifying this sort of thing would be really helpful. I don't want to make it horribly obvious, but I want it to be clear. Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

"No, of course I'm not upset with you," Victoria said from her seat at her vanity, her back to him. She sounded almost surprised. "Whyever would you think that?"

"Well..." Victor replied, trailing off. Instead of continuing, he picked at the cushion of the upholstered bench he was sitting on, the one that sat at the foot of Victoria's bed. He couldn't bring himself to say why he suspected that she might be in a bit of a mood. _"Because you're rearranging your jewelry box"_ sounded like such an idiotic reason. But in fact, that was precisely why.

After leaving the nursery, Victor had made his way to Victoria's room. He'd been all set to launch into the story of Dr. Van Ekel's ghastly suspicions. But when he'd knocked on the door and been invited in, he'd found her sitting at her vanity table, methodically picking through her earrings, brooches, and rings. That was _never_ a good sign. Whenever Victoria was in a bad mood, she never discussed it. She'd simply spend an hour or two silently rearranging the contents of her jewelry box. Afterward, she'd be fine again--and she'd always refuse to talk about whatever had put her into her mood in the first place. It was quite odd, in Victor's opinion--but still, whatever kept Victoria happy was fine with him.

There was an unspoken tension in the room. Victor found it quite disconcerting. _Why am I here, again?_ he asked himself. He tried to catch Victoria's eye in the mirror, but she was focused on her jewelry box.

"You'll...you'll never believe what the doctor thinks," Victor ventured hesitantly, looking at Victoria's back.

"Oh yes, I would," she replied. Victor furrowed his eybrows.

"You...would?" he asked.

"Yes." Finally Victoria looked up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "Before he left, he warned me that I shouldn't do anything to make you angry, now that I've seen what you're capable of."

Something in her tone bothered him. She didn't sound outraged, or indignant on his behalf, or even darkly amused at the very idea. Her voice was almost...absent. As though she was thinking about something else. Victor was a bit too confused to be hurt by it.

"Well, you know that...I mean, of course you know...I'd _never_..." he said, stammering a little, holding up his right hand as though taking an oath. But Victoria didn't see it. She'd turned her eyes away again.

"Of course I know," she said, still in that flat, diffident voice. "You're not that type at all."

There was a tense silence.

"Victoria," Victor finally said quietly, "is there something bother--"

"Though you would have known that the doctor had already spoken to me, had you stayed long enough," Victoria said, cutting him off. She finally turned around to face him. Victor couldn't help recoiling just a bit when he saw the hard stare she was fixing on him. He hadn't been on the receiving end of _that_ particular look since their second wedding anniversary, when he'd accidentally...Well, the point was that he didn't like the look of that stare any more now than he had then.

"Why did you leave?" she asked, her voice even. "Why didn't you stay to help?"

Victor looked at his feet, then at Victoria's feet, at the ceiling, then the floor, stalling for time. He didn't have an excuse.

"Well, I..." he began, picking at the seat cushion again, "I simply...felt...silly. So I--"

"_Left_," she finished for him. After another few seconds of staring, she threw her hands in the air. "Goodness, Victor, why must you _always_ do that?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Always do what?"

"Run," she replied, as though it was obvious. "Whenever things get difficult, you run. I don't understand why you--" But then she stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath. She turned back to her jewelry box. When she spoke again, her voice was low.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter," she said. Victor simply stared for a moment. Where in the world was _this_ coming from?

"Just a moment," he said, holding up a hand, "Yes, it _does_ matter. What do you mean?" Even as he spoke, Victor heard faint alarm bells going off in his head. _If you know what's good for you, you'll shut up,_ they seemed to be saying. A cold spot was starting to spread in his stomach. He didn't like this, not at all. Though he also had the feeling that Victoria wasn't saying what she wanted to say. Another sigh was the answer to his question.

"Victoria?"

Finally she turned to him again, her expression softer.

"Victor, what _has_ been bothering you lately?" she asked.

"Bothering me?" he asked in return. So she _had _noticed. Now that she'd brought it up, though, Victor had no idea how to explain his odd feelings of late to her. Victoria nodded.

"Yes, bothering. You've been so..._distant_ lately. Almost melancholy. Moreso than usual. I have lived with you for fifteen years, Victor--and I notice when you're acting differently," she said. "What is it?"

Victor looked down at his feet for a moment. "I don't know," he finally replied. And he really didn't. But Victoria wasn't going to be put off that easily.

"You must. You've been behaving oddly for over a week," she said. She was folding her hands in her lap so hard she was practically clenching them together. She looked at him closely. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Victoria, it isn't that I _can't_...it's that I really don't know what's been bothering me. Believe me, I'd tell you if I knew. Actually...I was rather hoping _you'd_ be able to tell _me_ what the matter is." Finished for the time being, he looked up at her hopefully. Her expression wasn't encouraging--the furrowing of her eyebrows was especially off-putting.

"Victor, how can I tell you what's bothering you? Especially when you never offer anything up?"

"The only reason I haven't said anything is because I didn't know what to say," he told her. The silence that followed his words was long enough for him to reflect on how absolutely asinine they had sounded.

"You don't trust me," Victoria finally said, her tone halfway between accusing and resigned. Victor almost did a double-take in surprise.

"Excuse me?" he asked, eyes widening. "When did I say I didn't trust you?"

"I don't think you've _ever _trusted me," she said in a rather hurt tone, continuing as though he hadn't spoken. "Not since we first met one another."

Victor just sat there, staring at her with his mouth gaping open. _What is she talking about?_ he wondered. That cold spot in his stomach was getting bigger by the second. He was also beginning to get just a trifle annoyed.

"What in heaven's name are you talking about?" he asked, trying very hard not to let his annoyance and confusion show.

"When we first met, and you..._disappeared_," Victoria said, speaking in a stage whisper. "That was the first time you ran away when things became difficult. I should have known it would be a habit of yours."

"Victoria!" he objected, but she was relentless.

"And you _proved _that you didn't trust me when you simply went ahead and believed that I'd marry someone else when I'd already told you that I loved you." By now Victoria's knuckles were white, she was clenching her fists so hard. But she was keeping her voice curiously flat.

The same couldn't be said for Victor. His tone was shrill when he said, "Victoria, that was _fifteen years ago!_ Why are you bringing it up now? And what does it have to _do _with anything? And furthermore, you _did_ marry someone else."

"So did you!" Victoria cried.

"Ssh, the children will hear you!" he said sotto voice. He lowered his own voice as he leaned toward her, his hands on his knees. "If you'd really like to be technical, Victoria, kindly remember that out of the two of us, I am the one who's on my first marriage."

"But not the one you wanted," Victoria replied, her voice soft and cold.

Victor's jaw dropped.

"How...what...how _dare_ you?" he asked hoarsely, shocked and hurt.

"That's what's bothering you, isn't it, Victor?" Victoria asked, sounding breathless. Even before Victor could finish frantically shaking his head, she continued, "And that's why you didn't want to tell me. That's why you've been acting odd, why you seem to prefer your own company to mine and the childrens' lately...you've been questioning whether you even want to be here. Have I figured it out for you?" With that, she put a hand to her mouth before swiveling back to face her mirror.

"Victoria, you are out of your mind!" Victor said without thinking. It was a snap reaction, as was the harsh tone. Immediately he was sorry. But he was also as close to angry as he could possibly be toward Victoria. How could she possibly think that? This whole discussion seemed so ridiculous. He had no idea what to say to defend himself.

"Am I?" Victoria asked, her tone matching his. She was practically glaring at him in the mirror.

"Yes, you are," he replied, trying to keep his voice level.

"Then what _is_ wrong? I want to help you, Victor--but you've closed yourself off lately. What else am I supposed to believe?"

"I hardly think that _that_--that I don't want to be married to you--would be your first conclusion, Victoria," he said. "How could you possibly think that?"

"But it's what's bothering you, isn't it?" she replied immediately, refusing to let up. Victor looked at her for a moment.

"No," he said slowly, "I think it's what's bothering _you_." It was as though he'd just been hit in the head with a sock-full of insight. For whatever reason, he mused, Victoria was letting her own insecurities show by putting the blame on him. A sudden empathy made him forget a bit of his anger. Here he'd thought they'd ironed all of this out long ago...obviously, he'd been wrong. No wonder Victoria was behaving like this--fifteen years was a long time to let this sort of thing fester.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Victoria said glibly. Her tone, just a bit too off-hand, was enough to tell him that she was lying. Before he could press her, though, she leaned toward him.

"Simply tell me what it _is_, so I can help you," she said, almost begging.

"But I don't _know_ what it is!" Victor said desperately, leaning forward and digging the heels of his hands into his forhead. There was yet another silence, punctuated by Victoria throwing her hands in the air again.

This was horrible. He could tell from the look on Victoria's face that she didn't believe him. She truly thought that her assessment of his mood was right. But it wasn't, it couldn't be...True, he'd been in the dumps lately, irritated more easily by the children...but no. Victoria was wrong. Even though he wasn't quite sure what was the matter with him, he knew Victoria was wrong. Well then. _I am hardly going to sit here and be accused heartlessly just to mend a wound to Victoria's ego that happened years ago,_ he thought.Even as the words ran through his mind, he cringed inwardly. What a cruel thing to think.

"I'm going to lie down for a while," Victor said flatly, standing. He needed to be out of here, he needed to collect himself, to think.

"But Victor--" Victoria tried to protest, but he held up a hand.

"Truly," he said. "I just need to...I have to..."

"Run away," Victoria finished for him. She took a deep breath through her nose. "Just as you always do." At that, Victor clenched his jaw so hard he was certain he felt something pop.

"I am through discussing this for the moment, Victoria," he said. So saying, he turned on his heel and headed for the door that joined his bedroom to Victoria's. Victoria didn't say a word, nor did she make a move to stop him. He heard her make a small, disgusted noise, followed by the tinkling of her jewelry knocking together as she practically attacked her jewelry box.

_Perhaps I should say something,_ he thought, his hand on the doorknob. But he quickly changed his mind. His wife thought he was a coward. After almost taking a sword through the vitals for her all those years ago, she thought he was a coward. And that he didn't love her. Why hadn't he brought that up, anyway? Why did he always think of more things to bring up during an argument _after _the fact?

Safe and alone in his bedroom, Victor leaned back against the closed door and rubbed his forehead. He felt as though he'd been dunked in ice water, and even felt a little shaky.

"That was a real fight," he said to the empty room. Someday he'd probably look back on this as a milestone--his and Victoria's first real, true fight. It had taken them fifteen years to have one. And the whole sorry mess fit in perfectly with the rest of the day.

Holding his head in his hands, Victor made his way over to his bed. With a groan, he stretched out and buried his face in the pillow. Perhaps he'd fall asleep, and wake up to find that this had all been a dream.

"What is the matter with me?" he said aloud, his voice muffled in the pillow.

How was he going to fix this? One of his children had moved into a wardrobe, another was annoyed at him for doing something stupid that had resulted in personal injury, the doctor thought he was some crazed brute...and the one person he'd always been able to talk to had apparently temporarily lost her mind. What to do...it was all just too much all at once.

Sleep. For the moment, he was going to sleep. And hold onto the hope that everything might fix itself while he dreamt.


	7. Chapter 7

After about a half hour, it was obvious that sleep was not in Victor's foreseeable future. His brain was going much to fast for him to shut it off. So he merely lay on his back in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes.

He'd been thinking over what Victoria had said. Or rather, hissed. Everything she'd accused him of, every hurtful word, it all boiled down to one question:

Was he happy?

And that one question led to another, influenced by Victoria's little tirade from earlier: Would he have been happier had his life taken a different course? All those years ago, had he made the wrong choice?

"Wait," Victor said, not even fully aware that he was thinking aloud. He uncovered his eyes and stared at his bed canopy. "I couldn't have made the _wrong_ choice--I never made the choice in the first place."

It was true. Emily had decided. Not Victor. And she'd been right. That was why he hadn't just gone ahead and drank the Wine of Ages anyway. As much as he enjoyed Emily's company, and had been resigned to a life (or death, rather) without Victoria, when all was said and done it was Victoria that he was in love with. What he wanted, truly wanted, was life with Victoria, not death with Emily. Victor made a small disgusted noise. There was something _else_ he should have brought up with Victoria. Why did he always have to miss the obvious defenses in an argument? Oh, well. If she was still speaking to him, he'd tell her later.

It seemed as though there was no place for that train of thought to go. On the one hand, the more he thought about it, he _did_ feel...dissatisfied. Not unhappy, just not...well, completely happy. Yet, never once since he and Victoria had gotten married had he questioned whether she was the person he was supposed to spend his life with. He had never needed to. Everything between them had always been so comfortable, so natural...even in the early days, it was as though they'd known one another for years. Though, as had just been disastrously proven, the memory of Emily was still a bit of a fault line in their marriage, Victor and Victoria were still happy with one another. And there was no doubt that he loved his children. They were his and Victoria's, after all. Besides, he _liked_ being a father. He'd been quite surprised when he'd come to that realization, but it was true. Fatherhood was a role he enjoyed very much. One that he felt comfortable in. Well, most of the time, anyway. No, his feelings of late ("melancholy", as Victoria had put it) had nothing to do with Victoria or the children. Victor was positive of that much.

So what _was _the problem?

For several more moments, Victor just let his mind drift. What in the world did he have to be dissatisfied about? He had a wife that he loved dearly, intelligent and reasonably pleasant children, money, a comfortable lifestyle...By all accounts, he had nothing to complain about. He was precisely where he always thought that he'd end up in life. Happier than he'd imagined, but this was pretty much the life he'd expected.

With a small groan, Victor turned over onto his side. He was no closer to self-understanding than he had been a few weeks ago, when all of this oddness had started. Finally, Victor decided that the best course of action would be just to forget the entire thing. To just "get over it", as his mother had advised him to do any time in his childhood when he'd had a problem. Deny its existence. What else could he do? Wallowing in confusion and bad feelings wasn't doing any good. After all, he managed to completely alienate Victoria with his behavior. That was the last thing he wanted.

So. That was that, then. Forget all about it, and go about repairing the damage he'd caused.

But that was another problem. Taking an active role in anything had never been Victor's strong suit. Usually, he realized ruefully, he usually just let things happen to him. Victoria was always the one to take definitive action--it was yet another one of the ways in which they balanced one another out. And, if he was honest, yet another way that he had always managed to duck many responsibilities, preferring to let her handle things. No wonder she'd apparently grown to resent him a bit. After thinking it over, Victor decided that, for better or worse, he was going to let this whole business blow over on its own. There was no need to go back over everything again, dredging it all up. It seemed useless. He'd pretend that nothing had happened. That seemed to be the easiest course of action.

So he was decided on that point, too. But even with a solution (probably not the best one, but a solution nonetheless) at hand, he still couldn't bring himself to get up and join the world again. Perhaps better to just lie there for a while. Everyone else would probably be fine without him.

Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door, the one that led out into the hallway. _Victoria? _he wondered, but then decided that it probably wasn't her. She usually used the door that adjoined their rooms. And she usually knocked gently, instead of the staccato pounding that was currently going on.

Sitting up, Victor swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. He ran a hand over his hair and tried to smooth some of the wrinkles out of his coat in an attempt to make himself look a bit more presentable. Finally he looked toward the door.

"Come in," he said. His voice came out sounding a little hoarse, and he cleared his throat. Perhaps it was Mrs. Reed, summoning him for teatime...or had he missed teatime? He had no idea how long he'd been in his room.

Victor was rather surprised when it turned out to be Mary. Victor and Victoria were relatively lax about the usual rules of propriety--one of them being that children Mary's age should always stay in the nursery until summoned. And no children were supposed to come unattended into their parent's room. Victor didn't mind, of course, but it was still somewhat surprising. She'd never come in here before--she usually just tried to talk to him through the door on the rare occasion that she happened to pass by when it was closed (probably, Victor assumed, just to be sure that he hadn't inadvertently fallen out the window or something when left to his own devices).

Seemingly full of purpose, she strode over to him. There was a brief silence as she just stood there next to him, looking up into his face.

"May I help you?" Victor finally asked, not sure what else to say.

"You missed tea," Mary told him.

"Did I?" he asked in return. "I'm sorry." _But why didn't anyone come to get me?_ Victor couldn't help wondering. Then, apropos of absolutely nothing, he had another thought: They really didn't need him all that much. It was a hurtful thought, and even as he had it he doubted how true it was. But still...it seemed, especially in light of what had occurred that day, Victor needed Victoria and the children more than they needed him.

As though reading his thoughts, Mary said, in a very reassuring tone, "It's all right. Mother said you were napping. Did you have a good nap? I did. Naps are good." Before Victor could reply, or even shake himself out of his dour mood enough _to_ reply, Mary gave a little start, as though remembering something.

"Here, I brought you this," she said, reaching into one of the pockets on her pinafore. When her hand reappeared, Victor saw that she was holding a scone. She held it out to him. "You like them, and you didn't get any. I wanted to put jam on it, but it would have been too messy, Mother said."

"Mother let you put a scone in your pocket to bring me?" asked Victor, amused and somewhat pleased. He took the proffered scone and thanked her.

"She thought it was nice of me," Mary replied proudly. She brushed the crumbs off of her hands, then stared at him again.

"Goodbye," she said, apparently finished now that the scone was delivered. She turned to leave.

"Wait a moment," Victor said, putting out a hand and catching her by the shoulder. Mary turned around, looking curious.

"How...how is everyone?" he asked. It seemed the easiest way to pose a question about what he really wanted to know to a four-year-old. Mary furrowed her brows.

"Fine," she replied, obviously a bit confused by his question.

"Then everyone made it downstairs for tea?" he asked, thinking of Lydia with her cane, and Catherine in the wardrobe.

"Except you," Mary nodded. "It took Lydia a long time on the stairs. And Catherine didn't want to come down. But then we all told her there were scones. Then she did." Victor couldn't help smiling a little at that one. Then he sobered again.

"And...how is your mother?" he ventured.

"Fine. Shouldn't she be?" Mary sounded a tad nervous now, as well as confused. Victor felt like slapping himself in the forehead. What was he doing? The girl was four. It was Victor's responsibility to see how Victoria was. It wasn't Mary's job to be his little spy.

"Of course," he quickly said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. "Merely...checking." Luckily Mary seemed satisfied with that.

"That's nice," she told him approvingly. There was a pause, one that, brief as it was, was apparently long enough to outlast Mary's short attention span.

"I'm going to the parlor. I've things to do," she said importantly, parroting a phrase that Victoria used often.

"Really?" Victor said, amused at her choice of words. "I believe I'll come with you. I've...things to do, as well."

He got up, and the two of them walked to the still open door. Once in the hallway, Victor couldn't help but notice how quiet it was.

"Where is everyone?" he asked Mary. "Are they still in the parlor?" Mary shook her head.

"No. Lydia is. She couldn't go for a walk with her cane," she said.

"They're out walking?" Victor asked. _With Anne and Catherine looking the way they do? _he thought, surprised. _Victoria will probably be stopped for questioning, if the constable sees them._ With an unpleasant jolt Victor remembered the incident with the doctor earlier in the day. He'd put it out of his mind. There was something else he had to find some way to deal with. As much as he'd like to, he probably wouldn't get away with ignoring that one.

"Yes," she said, her tone suggesting that Victor was a bit of an idiot for not paying attention to what she was saying. Then, yet again, Mary seemed to read his mind. "Just around the garden, though. Catherine still doesn't want anybody to look at her."

"Oh," he said. For a moment he toyed with the scone that he was still carrying. "Well...she'll feel better soon, I suppose," he added reflectively as they neared the top of the stairs. Victor was just about to take a step down when Mary stopped.

"My leg still hurts," she said suddenly, as though just thinking of it. Victor was sure she just had. He rolled his eyes, but did so affectionately. He decided not to bother bringing up that she was getting to be a young lady, and should walk about a bit more on her own. After all, she was the last one he'd be able to carry around. He figured he'd best make the most of it while he could.

So without saying anything, he merely smiled at her and held out his arms. Returning the smile widely, Mary fairly jumped into them, nearly knocking Victor down the stairs.

Once she was settled securely on his hip, Victor handed her the scone. "Hold that for me, will you please?" he asked. With a nod, Mary stuck the scone back in her pinafore pocket, then wrapped her arms around his neck. For whatever reason, Victor was suddenly struck by the thought that, despite what he'd been telling himself all afternoon, he _was_ needed. Even if only as a cheap alternative to public transportation. He held Mary a bit tighter for a moment.

When they were halfway down the staircase, there was suddenly a burst of what sounded like staccato thunder from outside. Victor stopped, startled by the sudden noise. Both he and Mary stared, wide-eyed, at the door. After a moment he realized the noise wasn't thunder (the day was clear, after all), but footsteps out on the porch. Victor had barely registered that thought when whoever was out there began banging thunderously on the door.

"What in the world is going on?" Lydia called from the parlor, sounding both nervous and annoyed. But her voice was drowned out by a shout from the other side of the door.

"Open up in there!" came a voice that Victor didn't recognize immediately. Whoever it was didn't sound very friendly.

"Oh dear," Victor said, as Mary tightened her grip on his neck. "What now?"


	8. Chapter 8

"Open this door!" the voice shouted again. There was more pounding, so loud that Mary covered her ears and scrunched up her face. Victor winced with each slam on the door. It felt as though the noise was cutting right into his temples.

"We'd just like to talk," came a second voice, a bit calmer than the first. Oh wonderful, there were two of them. Victor was still a bit too startled to immediately recognize the familiar tones.

By this time, Lydia had, cane in hand, hobbled her way to the doorway of the parlor. She stared at the door--there was now an indecipherable, muttering argument in progress on the other side of it--then up at Victor on the stairs.

"What's going on?" she asked again.

"I don't know," he replied, quickly descending the rest of the stairs. What he thought, but didn't say, was that it certainly didn't sound like anything good.

"Should we open the door?" Lydia asked. She sounded unsure, which was quite a rarity for her.

"Er..." Victor said, eyeing the door. "Well...I was rather thinking we should pretend we're not in." Lydia gave him a withering stare, which he chose to ignore. Then a thought struck him.

"Oh my goodness!" he exclaimed to Lydia, "Mother and your sisters are out there!" Victor craned his neck, trying to look out of the parlor window at the garden. No good. What if it was some sort of mad person out there (as it certainly sounded like), and they'd stopped in the garden first? The possible threat of anything happening to Victoria and the children ended Victor's dithering.

"Lydia, take Mary," he said quickly, setting her down on the floor. She looked up at him with an odd kind of expression on her face. The situation didn't seem to be making her nervous--she actually looked vaguely interested. And for once, much to Victor's relief, Lydia didn't have a cutting remark at the ready. She seemed rather nonplussed--too nonplussed to argue, at any rate. She merely took Mary's free hand, the movement making her wobble a bit on her cane, and nodded. Victor nodded back, and, after taking a deep breath, made his way to the front door.

Before he'd gone three steps, though, the pounding stopped. Though her voice was faint and rather muffled, though coming from a distance, Victor heard Victoria say,

"Father? What are you doing?"

_Finis?_ Victor thought, stopping in his tracks. _Oh dear._ This couldn't be good. To make quite an understatement, Finis did not sound pleased. It certainly didn't seem as though he was making a call just for the pleasure of their company. Victor knew all too well that Finis liked nothing better than a dramatic hunt--and since no animals were in season at the moment, Victor suspected that he would have to do.

"Grandfather Everglot?" Lydia and Mary said at the same time, each of them sounding both surprised and relieved. They looked at one another, then at Victor. Before he could say anything, he heard Victoria again, closer now.

"And Mr. Van Dort?" she asked.

"Oh, William, please," came William's pleasant reply. Victor could practically hear him tipping his hat deferentially. _Oh, wonderful, a posse, _was Victor's first thought. Had they dragged the constable and the town crier along, too?

"Grandfather Van Dort?" Lydia and Mary said, once more in unison. Mary suddenly looked a bit put out.

"Stop saying what I do," she said crossly. Lydia ignored her, but dropped her hand. Immediately Mary was off at a scampering run, and before Victor knew it she'd collided with his legs. She hugged him about the knees.

"Are you going to let them in?" she asked.

"I suppose I must," he answered without looking down at her.

Taking another breath, he leaned forward and opened the door.

It was as though everyone had been leaning on it from the other side, from the way they tumbled into the entry. Victor took a few steps backward, picking Mary up quickly to keep her from getting trodden on. Finis was in the lead, clutching his musket and scowling. William was next, trying to avoid getting his cane knocked out from under him by Finis. Victoria was right behind them, looking worried, surprised, and faintly cross. She nearly tripped over her father on the way in. Tailing along behind her, wide-eyed, were Anne and Catherine. Catherine was holding a lacy fan over the bottom of her face, presumably hiding her split lip. Anne, who looked a shade paler than usual, seemed a bit too worried to care that her bruise was in plain view.

The confusion was short-lived. There was an awkward pause as everyone righted themselves and then stared at one another, as though trying to decide who should speak first. Victor figured that he should say something. Peculiar as the circumstances were, it _was_ his house.

"_What_ is going on?" he finally asked. It was the question of the day.

Finis was the first to recover. He cleared his throat gruffly, then scowled up at Victor.

"As though you don't know," he growled. Gesturing with his musket, he continued, "I'm prepared to do a bit of honor-defending. _No one _treats an Everglot with disrespect!"

"Father!" Victoria said, at the same time that Victor said, "What?" They met each other's gaze briefly before looking away again.

"The town crier is...er, _crying_ it all over town," William said in a mild tone. He looked at Victor closely as he added, "I came round to ask about it, and Fin--er, Lord Everglot was just arriving. Quite the coincidence...Anyway, I'm sure it's a lot of piffle. You know, slow news day, making headlines out of nothing, need something to cry about--"

"If it's piffle," Finis interrupted angrily, "How do you explain _those_?" Swiveling, he pointed at Anne and Catherine, who both jumped slightly.

"Oh...I think they've been here for a while," William replied dryly with a glance at the girls. After a bemused pause, Finis grumbled,

"Don't try to be funny, Van Dort, you're no good at it." Then his anger seemed to flare again. He turned back to Victor and leveled the musket squarely at him. Victor gasped a little, and moved slightly so that Mary was out of the line of fire. Finis spoke before he could protest.

"Apparently, the village doctor had to make a house call this morning," he said, his tone threatening. "And rumor has it that _you_ have been, shall we say, _causing injury_ to _my_ grandchildren. To _Everglots_. I will not stand for it!"

"Yes, _rumor_!" Victor exclaimed when the now red-faced Finis paused to take a breath. "It isn't true, I'm telling you!"

"It isn't!" Victoria said, waving her hands about her face as she stepped to stand at Finis's side. "Father, really, how could you think such a thing? Dr. Van Ekel was mistaken!" Finis glanced up at her, but said nothing.

"Please, put the musket down!" Victoria said. "The children are here."

"I'm glad they are," Finis replied. "They can watch while their honor as Everglots is defended." With that, he hoisted the musket again and took a threatening step toward Victor. Mary was the first to react. She fished around her pinafore pocket, and then gave Finis one of her most charming smiles.

"Scone?" she offered sweetly, as though that might smooth things over. Victor shushed her, but not before Finis said,

"Small girls should be seen and not heard, miss!" Mary looked surprised, but wisely made no reply. The novelty of being ordered into silence, which rarely happened in the Van Dort household, was enough to keep her quiet. All she did was return the scone to her pocket and bury her face in Victor's shoulder for a moment.

William, Lydia, Anne and Catherine all seemed to be content to watch events unfold. Standing along the fringes of the little scene, they all had the expressions of people attending a particularly fascinating play--with varying degrees of wariness and confusion mixed in. But Victoria was all action, especially now that Victor was facing down a musket. After motioning Anne and Catherine to stay where they were, she quickly made her way over to Victor. She stood defiantly in between him and the musket, with the obvious intention of staring her father down.

Victor reacted almost immediately. He did not like to see Victoria standing on the business end of a firearm, even though he knew Finis wouldn't actually fire it. It was the principle of the thing. So he stepped quickly in front of Victoria, shielding her with his free arm outstretched. She immediately ducked underneath his arm to stand in font of him and Mary again, but with a single stride Victor managed to once more get in front of her.

The noble war of which of them was going to provide a human shield for the other could have gone on for quite a while longer. But Victor won easily by handing Mary to Victoria. That, and his legs were longer. Looking a tad deflated, Finis lowered the musket.

"I don't understand," Lydia finally said, having intently watched Victor and Victoria go back and forth. "Father, everyone thinks _you_ did something to us?"

"What did I just say?" Finis grumbled at her before Victor could respond. But Lydia wasn't easily cowed.

"But Father doesn't even step on bugs," she told Finis.

"It's true!" Catherine jumped in. Victor was rather surprised that she'd been quiet for this long. Holding her fan in front of her face, she went on, speaking very fast. "He'd never do anything to us. The doctor's mad! Completely mad! Anne, you see, hit herself with a door. Things like that always happen to her." She took a brief pause while Anne nodded, then looked down at her feet as she tried to cover her bruise. Breathlessly, Catherine continued,

"Lydia tripped over me, and I split my lip...Well, actually, she tripped over a butterfly net--which is how she hurt her ankle and why she needs a cane to walk about--but she ran into me _after_ she tripped, and knocked _me_ down, and her elbow hit me in the face. It does hurt _dreadfully_, but it's not so bad as it was. But truly, the town crier and the doctor don't know what they're talking about! Father would _never _do such a thing! The whole idea is utterly promiscuous!"

Seven pairs of very confused eyes turned to Catherine, who was flushed and looking proud of herself. There was a brief, embarrassed silence.

"I think you mean _preposterous_," Victor finally said, as they all continued to stare. Catherine fluttered her fan.

"Yes," she said, clearly not realizing what she'd said. "It's mad."

"Catherine's right," Anne added. "Father never did anything."

"A complete misunderstanding," Victoria said with an air of finality.

"See?" William said, looking down at Finis. "I _told_ you it was all piffle."

Finis, the wind completely out of his sails now, looked around the entry at them all, then down at his musket.

"Well," he said gruffly, "I suppose I believe them. Everglots don't lie, after all."

"Neither do Van Dorts," William said, bristling just a little. Which was surprising. It was rather hard to offend William.

"And we're both," Lydia said, tapping her cane for emphasis. "So we must be doubly truthful."

There was a slightly awkward pause. While all this had been going on, Victor had been growing more and more angry. Mostly at himself. Why, why in the _world_ was he letting the _children_ make his case for him? It was lovely of them to come to his defense, but _he_ was the man of the house. It was his job to be the defender, not theirs. He was the one who should be taking a stand, not just standing there uselessly. Now, even though it was a bit too late, Victor decided to speak up.

"I'll have to ask you to leave now," he said to Finis in his iciest tone. "And next time, I'll thank you not to barge into my house waving a musket about. Especially when my children are within range. I do understand your concern, but this has been utterly inexcusable behavior."

Finis looked distinctly unimpressed. All he did was look Victor up and down, then roll his eyes toward the ceiling. With a curt nod and a grunted farewell, mainly directed at Victoria, he turned and headed out the door without so much as a glance backward.

"Well then," William said, after watching Finis leave. "This has been fun. Good to know you're not some sort of maniac, my boy. And don't worry about Lord Everglot. I think he's been just a touch bored lately--needed something to do. Haven't been too many shooting parties to go to recently. I'll see you at work then, I suppose." He tipped his hat at Victoria, nodded at the children, complimented Lydia on her cane, and then he too was gone, shutting the door behind him.

The silence in the entry was brief but awesome. Victor couldn't bring himself to look at anyone. _What a fine head of the household I am, _he thought.

"Goodness!" Catherine exclaimed after a moment. "How exciting!"

"Exciting?" Anne repeated, sounding incredulous. "It was scary."

"Father's scone squished!" Mary said in dismay.

"It was _weird_," Lydia remarked, "and ended quickly. Rather pointless, really."

"I think," Victoria began quietly. She paused while everyone turned to her. Once she had their attention, she continued mildly, "I think that we should forget that this ever happened." She put Mary down, smoothed her dress, then looked at all of them in turn.

"Shall we go into the parlor before dinner, then? It's nearly five-thirty. Go, please, children," she added when none of them moved.

One by one, the girls made their way into the parlor, each of them glancing back at Victor and Victoria now and again. Victoria was watching them go, and Victor was watching her. They hadn't spoken since their argument. Victor was unsure of what to say. He fervently hoped that he hadn't just cemented all of her fears.

Victoria, without sparing him a glance, started past him into the parlor after Mary. On impulse, Victor reached out and put his hand lightly on her elbow. Much to his surprise, she stopped. And didn't shake him off. She still wasn't looking at him, though.

"Victoria, I...I'm sorry," he said quietly. And rather lamely. "For this whole mess."

Victoria was quiet for a moment, looking at the floor. Then she straightened, and slowly brought her eyes up to meet his. She only met his gaze for a brief moment before casting her eyes away again. Her expression was unreadable.

"Let's join the children," she finally said quietly. With another brief glance at him, she turned and went into the parlor.

Victor stared after her for a moment, then blinked slowly. He was disappointed, ashamed, bemused...and a whole bundle of other unidentifiable emotions. All negative, and none that he wanted the children to see. So he worked his features into what he hoped was a neutral, natural sort of expression, straightened his shoulders, and then followed Victoria into the parlor, closing the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

It was quiet in the parlor that evening. Though it was mild weather, a homey fire was going, spitting the occasional spark. Only a few of the lamps were lit--the days being much longer this time of year. The day was just turning to dusk, the sky turning a purple-gray outside the bay window at one end of the room.

Because of all of the oddness of the day, it seemed to Victor that sitting here in the parlor with his family was a much-welcome return to sanity. He was in his armchair on one side of the fireplace, his feet up on the ottoman, hands folded in his lap and elbows propped up on the armrests. Just sitting. And thinking. He had toyed with the idea of going over to the piano near the window, but had quickly decided he simply wasn't in the mood. Perhaps later. For the moment, he was content to sit and stare into the fireplace, occasionally glancing around at everyone else. It had been awhile since he'd sat in the parlor with them before dinner. Lately, for a reason he wasn't even sure of, he'd preferred to go to his study in the evenings. It was more peaceful than the parlor usually was. But everyone seemed rather subdued tonight, even Mary.

Victoria sat in her rocker on the other side of the fireplace, facing him. She seemed thoughtful as she rocked gently back and forth, her concentration on her needlepoint. Mary sat on the floor near her feet with the yarn basket at her side. The little project she was working on seemed to consist of collecting all of the various scraps of leftover yarn, and then tying them together into a long multi-colored string. She seemed quite intent. Lydia was sitting on the end of the sofa nearest to Victor, head bent over the book that lay flat in her lap, her bad ankle propped up on a footstool in front of her, leaning her elbow against the sofa's armrest and resting her chin on her hand. Catherine was next to her, sitting primly with her sewing. Whatever she was doing must have been slightly taxing, because, Victor noticed, her tongue was protruding ever so slightly from the corner of her mouth. The hallmark expression of deep concentration. To round out the little domestic scene, Anne was sitting on the other end of the sofa, dangling a bit of string in front of a sleepy-looking Boisduval. Boisduval, as Victor had christened him, was the family cat--and was well past his days of being excited by dangling string. Nowadays, Boisduval was far from the skinny little kitten Victor had found outside the cannery nine years ago. Now, he was an fat, old, contented housecat that left the house about as often as Victor did. Which is to say, rarely. Victor smiled faintly as he watched the cat give a half-hearted swipe at the string.

Things seemed to be getting back on track, in any case. Everyone was in their usual place, going about their usual activities. Just like always. In about a half-hour Alice, the maid, would come in to take Mary up to the nursery, to feed her and then put her to bed. Just like always. After that, it would be dinnertime. Just like always. While Victor felt very appreciative that his routine was getting back to normal, he still felt some odd twinge somewhere deep inside. Same, same, same. Always, always, always. As much as he hated to, Victor had to admit that the day had been eventful, something that rarely happened. He could have done without the argument with Victoria, of course. And without the children getting hurt. And having a musket pointed at his head. But still...it had been exciting. Victor had always been a creature of habit, of routine. His whole world was one of routine, and had been his entire life. Except once, of course. Just that once. He'd been thinking about it an awful lot lately. It was what he thought about when he retired alone to his study, all those nights that he hadn't joined everyone in the parlor lately. And he found himself thinking about it now, retracing the same territory.

His thoughts were not exclusively about Emily. Not at all. Mostly he'd thought about himself and Victoria. But more than that, it was the events of those two days themselves. It had all happened and been over so quickly. Meeting Victoria and falling in love. Losing Victoria. Defending Victoria. Venturing into the Land of the Dead. Marrying a dead woman. Nearly losing his life. Facing the biggest moral quandary he'd ever been faced with: stay true to Victoria, the woman he had given his heart to the instant he'd seen her, or keep a promise to a woman who'd had everything taken from her? And that, admittedly, he'd developed an affection for. Then to actually see a soul cross over. Amazing. Beautiful.

And then afterward...back to normal. Happier than he'd ever been, surely. But everything had fallen back into place so quickly...it still jarred him slightly to think of it.

Victor sighed and crossed his legs at the ankle. Then he looked across the way at Victoria, his head tilted to one side in contemplation. She looked lovely, there in the firelight. She looked...serene. To him, she looked no different than she had that first time they'd sat across from one another in front of a fireplace. When they'd first shared their declarations of love. Victor blinked slowly, trying to work this image of Victoria into the one that was cross with him. And cross over what, exactly?

How, how in the world could Victoria think that he had any regrets? That he was pining for the route not taken? He'd meant it when he'd told her he felt they should be together always, and that had not changed. Not a bit. It never had. Even as he'd stood at the altar with Emily, fully willing to join her in death. For as long as his heart was beating, it belonged to Victoria. Completely. Now he knew that even death wouldn't change that. Victoria was in full possession of his heart, alive or dead. And the children. The girls. Wishing that things had turned out differently would be tantamount to wishing them undone. Things were different now. He was a grown man, a father. He could never wish anything that meant his daughters wouldn't exist. The four of them had equal shares of his heart, too. Just as much as Victoria did. He wasn't willing to let it any of it go. And he was sure that Victoria knew that, deep down. How could she not?

What he and Victoria needed, Victor decided, was that talk he'd been aching for all day. Last time he'd gotten a fight in lieu of a heartfelt discussion. But he was resolved not to give it up. He wanted Victoria to be reassured in how much he loved her. Victor didn't ever want to have a scene like the one today ever again. Truly, though, he wanted that discussion for selfish reasons, too. It wasn't as though he didn't want to figure out what had been bothering him lately. And Victoria wanted to help. She always did. She'd just...been in a bit of a mood today, apparently. He'd talk to her about that, too.

Later, though. Not now. The children were in the room. Soon. They would bare their souls to one another, and everything would be fine again. Fall right back into place. Just the way they had after Emily. And the two of them would come out better for it, just as they had after that night in the church. Victor blinked again, but this time more to savor the comforting thoughts. Everything would be all right.

He couldn't help feeling slightly amused, though--the talk that he was giving himself sounded an awful lot like the sort of fatherly talks he doled out to the children when they were disappointed or upset. The sort of paternal words that were both practical (outlining precisely what to do) and comforting (boiling down to a positive if vague "everything will work out" philosophy).

The empathetic, comforting vagueness had always been part of Victor's personality. The practicality he'd learned from Victoria.

By this time Victor's eyes were starting to hurt--he'd been gazing into the fire for a while without realizing it. He turned his face away, trying to blink the green blotches out of his vision. When his sight had cleared a bit (helped along by some vigorous eye-rubbing), Victor caught sight of Victoria gazing at him. She had paused mid-stitch, holding her embroidery hoop in front of her, and was regarding him from underneath her eyelashes. Inevitably their eyes met. Victor had the distinct feeling that Victoria could sense his thoughts, and was intuitively aware of what he'd been thinking about. As a test, he gave her a slow, affectionate smile. Victoria hesitated, but then her face relaxed into a smile that mirrored his. An emotion very close to victory welled up inside Victor's chest when he saw Victoria smile. For the moment, it was enough.


	10. Chapter 10

"Mama," Mary said suddenly, quite breaking the spell. Victor's swell of emotion ebbed, leaving a pleasant sort of haze behind. He was a bit disappointed, though he should have known the introspective quiet couldn't last. So he just leaned back in his chair again and watched as Victoria collected herself and looked down at Mary.

"Yes?"

"May I tell you something?"

"Of course," Victoria said with amused and affectionate interest.

"I'm a goose."

Mary's tone was conversational, and most of her attention was still focused on her ever-growing string of yarn. Victor and Victoria shared another look. Only this time, instead of a loving gaze of truce, it was their bemused _"Do _you _have any idea what she's talking about?"_ look. They'd shared that look more often than the loving gazes after Mary had learned to talk. Victoria was clearly trying to choose a response when Catherine spoke.

"A goose?" she repeated with a laugh. Her words were coming out a bit slurred because of her swollen lip-Victor noticed that she put her fingers gently to the cut after every few words. "What are you talking about? You're not a goose, you're-Oh, I'm _dreadfully _sorry, am I too loud for you?"

This last was directed very crossly to Lydia, who had covered her ears and bent lower toward the pages of her book when Catherine had laughed. Lydia hated to have noise while she read, so why she chose to read in the parlor with the whole family present was quite beyond Victor.

"Mmph," Lydia grunted in reply.

"Well, do forgive me for interrupting your little book!"

"Erg."

"That's enough, ladies," Victor said mildly. Huffily, Catherine turned and looked sulkily down at the floor while Lydia gave up and closed her book, keeping her place with her finger. Anne, who had given up on the string and was now leaning down and scratching the ears of a loudly purring Boisduval, seemed relieved that the argument had been quelled. Everyone now turned their attention to Mary, all equally curious about the goose statement.

"You're not a goose, dear," Victoria finally told Mary affectionately. "You're a little girl."

"I know," Mary said, nodding. Then she said, rather proudly, "But I'm a goose, as well. A silly little goose. Lydia said so."

"Did I?" Lydia asked as Victoria and Victor gave her identical raised-eyebrow stares. She furrowed her brows in thought for a moment, then said, "That was _days_ ago."

"But I remember," Mary said.

"Yes, so do I," Lydia replied. "I did call you that. Because you _are_ a silly little goose." Her tone, rather than biting or sarcastic, was quite affectionate.

"See?" Mary said, looking up at Victoria. "I'm a goose."

"Why did you call her a goose?" Victor asked. Lydia grinned slightly.

"Because she was convinced that there was an entrance to Wonderland under my bed. And she tried to use it at five o'clock in the morning,"she replied.

Everyone stifled laughs behind their hands. It was the first time, Victor noted, that any of them had laughed all day. Mary looked quite pleased with herself.

"I remember that," Anne put in, stroking the cat's head. "She woke me up, too."

"Mary, dear," Victoria said, reaching down and patting her hair, "What on earth are we going to do with you?"

"Well, she _does_ make us laugh," Victor said in a mock-serious tone. He put his feet on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I suppose we should keep her."

"If you think it's best," Victoria replied with a nod. Then she smiled.

Victor couldn't help breaking into a grin. It was lovely to be smiling and cheerful again. The Van Dort house was the only household in the village where cheerfulness was routine. Victor didn't want that to change. He and Victoria were making up for childhoods' worth of lost time in the happiness department, really. Their children were getting what the two of them never had. Victor had certainly never clambered up into his own father's lap the way Mary was climbing into his at the moment. If the price to pay for a cheerful household and happy children was the entire town thinking the lot of them were daft as brushes, then so be it.

There was a contented silence as Mary settled herself in Victor's lap, and he wrapped one arm around her. Victoria watched the two of them with a touched sort of smile on her face, then returned to her sewing. Catherine did likewise, and Lydia propped her book open again. Anne, saying that she felt a bit chilly, got up from the sofa and went to sit on the floor near the fire, next to Victor's feet.

"Here, kitty," she said, patting the ottoman. Boisduval looked at her for a moment, then hauled himself to his feet. With the padding, waddling gait that only overweight cats can achieve, he made his way over to her and butted her hand with his head. Anne patted the ottoman again. Extending quite a bit of effort, and eventually needing a boost from Anne, Boisduval made it up onto the ottoman. Seemingly exhausted, he immediately thumped himself down onto this side, Anne stroking his head gently.

"Aren't you a nice kitty?" Anne murmured. She loved that cat, really. Victor supposed it was because they'd more or less grown up together. Boisduval had become her cat more than the family cat. It was sweet to watch the two of them-Victor was always reminded of himself and Scraps. They'd grown up together, too.

"Nice kitty," Mary echoed, sounding thoughtful. Then she addressed the room at large.

"If I'm a goose," she said, her eyes on Anne and Boisduval, "I think Father's the cat." Everyone stared at her again.

"Oh really?" Victor asked. He glanced over at Victoria to see her looking very amused. Then he looked down at the top of Mary's head. "A cat. Why do you say so?"

"No, you're not _a _cat, you're _the _cat. Our cat."

There was a bemused pause.

"What are you on about now?" Lydia finally asked, looking over the top of her book.

"Yes, dear, what do you mean?" Victoria asked, putting her sewing in her lap.

Mary shrugged. "Father's like the cat. They're both nice and quiet, take a lot of naps, and don't do very much. And we all love them."

Obviously, this comparison was meant as a compliment, judging by the way she smiled and gave Victor an enthusiastic hug as soon as she was finished speaking. But Victor wasn't sure whether to be amused or hurt. He'd just been compared to the laziest, most ineffectual (though definitely the most affectionate) feline that ever graced the planet. Much to his chagrin, he noticed that the other girls were having fits of repressed laughter. Catherine had to go so far as to wipe a few tears from her eyes. Even Victoria was all too obviously trying to keep the corners of her mouth from twitching.

"Well," Victoria finally said, covering a chuckle with a cough when she noticed the look on Victor's face, "We..._do_ love you, dear."

"As much as you do the cat?" he asked dryly. All Victoria could do was nod, and cover her smile with her hand.

Luckily for Victor, a few moments later Alice came in to collect Mary and summon the rest of them to dinner. He handed Mary over to the maid, giving her an absentminded kiss goodnight as he did so. Then he merely sat for a bit longer as the children collected themselves (and in Lydia's case, canes), and headed for the dining room. As he watched Victoria kiss Mary goodnight and receive the yarn-string as a gift, Victor had an epiphany. Of sorts. His eyes widened as he stared into the middle distance. _Is that what it's been?_ he wondered, bringing his fingers to his chin.

"Shall we?" Victoria asked, standing and putting her sewing aside. "Victor?"

"Oh, er...yes," he said, rising slowly from his chair, still thinking. "Let's."

When they were at the parlor door, Victor stood aside to let Victoria go ahead of him. As they crossed the entryway toward the dining room, he put his hands on her shoulders.

"Might we talk? After dinner?" he asked, taking the liberty of bending to speak into her ear. She didn't seem to mind.

"Of course," she nodded. "I think we should." She patted his hand gently.

Victor, as he walked into the dining room behind Victoria, was feeling more cheered than he had in a while. But he was also rather bemused. Sitting down at his place at the head of the table, and unfolding his napkin, he thought, _I think I've figured out my problem. My "melancholy". Thanks to Mary. It's odd, but...nevertheless..._

_I've become a fat, contented old housecat._


	11. Chapter 11

At long last, Victor and Victoria were alone. They'd wound up in Victor's bedroom, with the doors securely locked. In a house full of children, it was the last refuge. And they were long, long overdue for this chat. He'd assumed they'd be able to steal a few moments after dinner, that the children would be occupied.

Nothing was that easy. He should know that by now.

0-0

They'd tried to sit together in the parlor directly after dinner, assuming that the children were well-occupied elsewhere. Side by side they'd sat on the sofa, not quite touching though Victor had ached to take her hand. Here he was, just where he'd wanted to be all day, alone with his wife and ready to have a talk. Yet he was at a bit of a loss. They'd never fought before. How should he go about trying to make up? Victoria, hands clasped in her lap and her eyes sad, had turned toward him.

"Victor, dear," she'd said, her voice low and her eyes not quite catching his, "I said terrible things to you this afternoon. I'm terribly sorry for what I said. I was unfair. And...and cruel. I'm sorry." At that, Victor had gone ahead and taken her hand.

"Apology accepted," he told her, and she nodded. When their eyes met, Victor felt another rush of warmth, the same as he had in the parlor before dinner. Stroking her fingers with his thumb, he realized that this was the first time they'd touched, really touched, all day. Frowning, he considered. Or was it longer than that...?

Fresh guilt over his recent moodiness and distance swept through him. The guilt was swiftly followed by fresh hurt over what Victoria had said to him. Now was as good a time as any to question her, to reassure her.

"Apology accepted," he repeated, squeezing her fingers. Serious now, keeping his tone even, he leaned in toward her, scanning her face. "I'm sorry for not being there. For...well, not having been here. But Victoria, why were you so-"

He only made it that far before Anne came into the parlor wearing her nightdress and robe, hauling a very sleepy-looking Boisduval and a large book along with her. It was amazing that she was able to manage both at once. She'd offered them a smile and quiet greeting as she hoisted herself and the cat into Victor's armchair. Seemingly oblivious to having interrupted her parents, she settled in with Boisduval curled up next to her and her book (one of his illustrated bird guides, Victor noticed now) open in her lap.

Victor and Victoria glanced at each other. As they quietly sighed, Victor felt a little stab of rather impotent annoyance. He was fully within his rights to ask Anne to leave. Yet he didn't want to hurt her feelings. He'd not spent very much time with her lately, either. As he dithered to himself, trying to figure out a nice way to order his daughter and the cat out of the room, Victoria gently withdrew her hand and stood. Quickly he glanced up at her, hoping he hadn't missed his chance.

"I think I'll go up to my room," she said, meeting his eye with a pointed look. Understanding, he nodded. "Good night, Anne."

"Good night, Mother," Anne replied with a smile. When Victoria left, she turned to Victor, who had his frustrated gaze on Victoria's back. "Look, Father, this is the bird I told you about last week."

Slowly Victor turned to her, having no idea what she was talking about. Anne was tilting the book toward him, pointing to an illustration. He was trying to remember when she'd mentioned any sort of bird when she said, "Remember, I found the nest in the hedge? And then I saw a little bird. I think it's this one..."

And she happily prattled in her quiet way for quite a while, as Victor, hoping his indulgent smile wasn't coming across as a grimace, tried to figure out a way to politely get himself out of there. Eventually, a bit more curtly than he might have otherwise, Victor interrupted her to praise her research, give her a pat on the head, and tell her it was nearly bedtime. Then he'd bid her good night and left her there, plainly a little confused.

Taking the stairs two at a time on his way up to Victoria's room, he practiced his lines, went over what he wanted to ask. Oh, but all he really, truly wanted to do was give Victoria a hug. It was all that seemed important right now.

Instead of finding Victoria in her bedroom, though, he found her in the hall. Back to him, she stood with Lydia and Catherine, already in their nightgowns, before her. As he neared, feeling again that pulse of annoyance, asking himself yet again what in the world could be happening now, he saw that Victoria had her hands on her hips. It was a pose reminiscent of Maudeline, and was Victoria's primary scolding position.

"Keep your voices down," she was saying as Victor came to stand at her shoulder, "you'll wake Mary up."

"What's going on? What's wrong?" Victor asked, noticing the defiant expression on his daughters' faces and the harassed one on Victoria's.

"I never touched her stupid fan!" Lydia cried. Whether in response to his question or just as a general protest, he wasn't sure.

"Language, Lydia," said Victoria, glancing at Victor.

Suppressing another sigh, Victor pressed his palm to his forehead briefly. A fan. Arguing in the middle of the hallway, in their nightgowns, over a fan. When he and Victoria needed to talk. Again he entertained the notion of selling them to the first group of Gypsies he could find, but decided that that solution wouldn't be very kind or fair to the Gypsies. From the look on her face, Victoria was thinking along the same lines.

"I didn't touch it," Lydia insisted, glowering down at Catherine, who glowered right back up at her. "Why would I? You probably just left it somewhere."

"I didn't!" Catherine said. "You did something with it, just to be mean. You know I need it to cover up my lip, and you hid it just to be horrid!"

"You're crazy," Lydia said flatly, pulling a face. That was apparently the last straw.

Balling up her fists, her plump face distorted with rage, Catherine lunged at her. Quickly, with a gasp, Victor grabbed Catherine by the shoulders and pulled her away. For a moment she struggled, and he held on. Meanwhile Victoria stepped in front of Lydia, who had taken a hobbling step backward, impeded by her cane.

"Catherine!" Victor said, pulling her a little closer.

"You're horrible!" Catherine cried at Lydia, sounding near tears. "I hate you! I'm never going to—ow."

She broke off with a pitiful little moan of pain, her fingers to her lip. Glancing down, Victor saw she'd re-opened her split lip. Bright red blood was dripping onto her front, and her fingertips glistened with it. Despite himself, Victor winced at the sight.

"Serves you right," Lydia said rudely. She quailed just a little when Victoria spun round to face her.

"Go to bed. Immediately," Victoria told her. She did not raise her voice, nor did she sound angry, but she did sound as though she'd had enough.

Lydia looked for a moment as though she was going to argue, but the look on her mother's face seemed to stop her. Without another word, Lydia hobbled her way to her room down the hall, closing the door behind her hard enough to make a point but not so hard that she could be accused of slamming it.

"Are you all right?" Victoria asked Catherine, turning to her and bending to take a look at her lip. Before Catherine could reply, the sound of footsteps, little Mary-sized footsteps, came from within the nursery.

Over Catherine's head, Victor and Victoria shared a look. It was not the warm, romantic, intimate gaze from earlier. It was the look of two wardens attempting to quell a prison riot, wondering how much violence might be justifiable in the fulfilling of their duties. With matching grim expressions, they'd parted ways once more—Victoria into the nursery to tend to Mary, Victor steering Catherine into the washroom to clean up her lip.

Pressing a cold, wet washcloth over Catherine's mouth served the dual purpose of stemming the bleeding and keeping her quiet. Victor didn't feel much like hearing from her just now. Not from any of the children. The lovely domestic scene from earlier, and then the relatively peaceful meal, seemed very far away. Almost like it belonged in someone else's life.

When her lip had stopped bleeding, Victor had wiped a stray spot of blood from her chin, given her a kiss, and then sent her to bed with promises that he'd keep out a sharp eye for her missing fan.

After making quite sure that Catherine had gone to her room and was going to stay there, Victor made his way to Victoria's room, closing the door softly behind him. Victoria was in the armchair by the window, and she glanced up when he came in.

"Mary heard the argument and wanted to help," she said, tiredly massaging her temples. "I think she's asleep again, though."

"Oh," he said. Nearing her, he took a deep, calming breath, prepared to pick up their conversation where they had left off. Before he could say a word, though, there was a gentle knock on Victoria's bedroom door.

"Mother?" came Anne's voice, thin and reedy through the closed door. Victor closed his eyes and took another breath. Offering him an apologetic look, Victoria rose and took a few steps toward the door.

_No, _Victor thought.

Wordlessly, he put a hand on her arm to stop her, shaking his head and putting a finger to his lips. He was through messing about. Her only reply was to nod. Taking her hand, he led her through the adjoining door into his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind them. He also took a moment to lock the door that led into the hall. Victoria lit the bedside lamp. They heard one more knock, and one more faint call, and then footsteps heading into the nursery. Good. It had not sounded like an emergency. Anne could wait.

0-0

So that was how they'd ended up here, lying facing each other on the bed. Quiet, alone at long last. And now he wasn't sure what to say to her. She'd apologized, yes, and of course he forgave her—but he wanted to know what had brought her temper on. Those words she'd used, what she'd accused him of. It hurt.

"Why did you say those things you did?" he finally asked, deciding to be as direct as he could. Immediately Victoria looked guilty, uncomfortable. She rolled over onto her back, arms folded across her middle. Victor remained as he was, propped up on his elbow, waiting for her response.

"You've been so distant lately," she said at length, her voice soft. "I simply...I've missed you. We've not really spoken for a long time, we always have the children about...and we've not, well, spent much time together. It isn't all your fault, I realize that. I simply...I've felt...abandoned."

By the time she finished she was nearly whispering. Frowning, Victor looked at her in the dim light cast by the lamp, watched as she twisted her fingers together. He'd not seen her do that in a long time.

"I'm sorry," he said, "that you've felt that way. But I still love you. I'd never abandon you."

The silence was heavy with an unspoken response—once upon a time, she believed he'd done just that. They'd discussed this so many times, in so many different ways. So many times, in fact, he could hardly recall all of the things that he'd said. A feeling very close to anger began to well up inside of him, but he kept his voice level when he spoke.

"Victoria, I haven't any idea what else to say to you," he told her. "I confess, I...I'm hurt that you could possibly, even a little, think that I don't love you, or don't want to be with you. Haven't I been here, for fifteen years? We have a life, we have children...I just...It hurts to think that you believe I've been lying to you, somehow."

"Oh, Victor," Victoria breathed, turning her head toward him, her eyes large. "Oh...I never thought that—not really-" Before she could finish, he covered her folded hands with one of his.

"Let me finish, please," he said gently. Nodding, she fell silent, still watching him as he went on, "I've never apologized to you for what happened between Emily and I. I am sorry to have hurt you—you cannot imagine how guilty and strange I felt for becoming close to someone else after I met you. But I wanted to come back to you. I tried, I've told you so before..."

He had to stop for a moment, his thoughts swirling. Victoria held his hand between both of hers, folding their fingers together so that it was hard to tell where one hand stopped and another began. Their wedding bands clicked against one another.

"I never stopped loving you. I was...I was hurt, betrayed, when I heard you were marrying someone else. I thought you'd broken with me. But I still loved you...the moment I saw you again, when she put your hand in mine...it was _right_."

Victor was aware he was starting to ramble. The words just seemed to tumble out, one thought following another, all jumbled together. Taking a breath, he tried to choose his next words carefully.

"I'll always feel guilty for hurting you, for making you doubt, but I'm not sorry that I met her," he said slowly, "or that I got to know her, especially because of how it all turned out-"

"Nor am I," Victoria said quietly. "Truly. It turned out for the best, in the end." Victor cocked an eyebrow.

"So you've said," he murmured. "More than once. Do you truly think so?"

His question seemed to bring her up short. For a moment she stared at him, her mouth open. Then, with a small sigh, she turned to stare at the ceiling again.

"I'm not jealous," she finally said. "I'm truly not. At least, not in the way one would think...It's merely the knowledge that you _wanted _to marry someone else. I betrayed you, and I'll never forgive myself, but you know why I did it—you'd disappeared, I didn't know if you were trapped or hurt or ever coming back again...my parents needed the money. But I never wanted to."

Victoria's voice seemed to be on the brink of breaking, and she took a trembly breath. Victor waited. So much guilt, so much misunderstanding. In all the times they'd skated around this discussion over the years, she'd never put it like this. Oh, he knew, she'd told him the what and the how, what her parents had done—but she'd never put it like this.

"But darling, I understand," she went on, meeting his eye again. Her face was half in shadow. "I think...oh, that's why this is all so difficult, so...so..."

"Messy?" he supplied.

"I suppose so," she replied. "I know you love me, I truly do. And you're human, I understand that you could have feelings for someone else, and still love me. You did something beautiful for her, I recognize that...you've done something beautiful for me. I just...it doesn't...I don't know." Giving up, Victoria turned her face away, pulling one of her hands away from his so that she could run it over her forehead. Only now did he realize she'd begun to tremble a bit. "I don't know."

Neither did Victor, but he thought he got the sense of what she meant. It was all too easy for one's head to say one thing, and one's heart another. For a long while neither of them spoke, each consumed with their own memories. Silently, fondly, Victor studied Victoria's profile. Even here, even now, with all of these messy feelings being discussed, fears being brought to light...Victor's dominant emotion was love. Intimate, close, married love, that he knew deep down that he wouldn't ever have achieved with anybody else. Something close, maybe, something that worked just as well, and made him happy enough. But nothing like this.

Together, the two of them were special. More, and better, than they could be apart. There was no real explaining it, no tallying of personality traits, of pros and cons, of might-have-beens or greener pastures. Their connection simply _was_. He knew that she felt the same. They'd founded their lives, their life together, on it.

"I'm ridiculous, just listen to me," Victoria murmured, her hand still over her eyes. Instead of dignifying that with a response, Victor merely slid closer to her.

Sensing his movement, Victoria took her hand from her face and rolled back onto her side, so that they were facing each other again. As though on some secret signal, they pulled one another close. Feet entwined, arms about each other, sharing a pillow, they gazed into each others' eyes. They'd not embraced like this in a very long time...Victor was very, very aware of how long it had been. Perhaps that was part of the problem.

"Please forgive me," Victoria said. "For...everything. I love you so, I truly do."

"Please forgive _me_," Victor replied. "I've not been my best lately. But I love you, too. For heaven's...darling, enough to literally raise the dead. I can't imagine living without you—I never could."

Victoria made some little noise that Victor couldn't quite interpret. Getting a little frustrated, a little desperate, he kissed her. A bit harder than he normally would have, with a bit more urgency. As Victoria responded in kind, Victor realized how long it had been since they had really kissed one another.

"Please don't doubt my feelings for you," he murmured. "I'm here, I always will be. I don't want to be anywhere but here, with you. Please believe me."

"I believe you," she replied, touching his face. "I promise. Truly."

Those were the last words that passed between them for a while.

0—0

Afterward, they'd retired to Victoria's room. The house was quiet, no more little footsteps, muffled arguments, or knocks on the door. Victor was grateful. He was in the best mood he'd been in for a while, and wanted to keep it that way as long as he could.

Now in his nightshirt, relaxed and at peace with the world (or his wife, at least), Victor pulled the covers a bit more closely around himself, watching Victoria change into her nightgown. When she noticed him watching her, she gave him a very intimate smile.

Leaning back against the pillows, he sighed a contended sigh. It had been as good a resolution to their argument as he could imagine, all things considered. He could only hope Victoria's doubts and worries had been put to rest for good.

Soon enough Victoria joined him, putting out the lamp before she slid herself under the covers. She cuddled up next to him, resting her head against his shoulder.

"We never talked about you," she murmured, running a hand over his chest. It took him a moment to realize what she meant.

"Oh," he said. Gently he caressed her arm with his fingertips. "I suppose we didn't."

"What's been bothering you so?" she asked, the sympathy and concern he'd been looking for this afternoon very much present now.

Victor thought. Recalled his epiphany from earlier in the evening. _Father's just like the cat_...Though admittedly he felt a little less useless and housecattish now, there was still that niggling little melancholy in the back of his mind. The more he paid attention to it the more pronounced it became, flowing in and taking the place of the warm affectionate feelings he'd been enjoying.

"I'm not a young man anymore," he finally said. "I'm thirty-five, I'm a father of four, I have a house and servants and a cat. I don't know, I feel...like all the adventure is behind me, somehow."

"Adventure?" Victoria asked. Victor shrugged.

"Perhaps that's the wrong word," he said, and shrugged again. "Something new and different, perhaps?"

"Outside the routine?" Victoria offered. Something in her tone seemed a little off. Quickly Victor held her a bit closer.

"Now, don't worry that I'm bored with the children, or you," he told her, pressing his cheek to her hair.

"I wasn't," she assured him, though Victor thought he detected some relief in her voice all the same. After a moment, she said, "What about your hobbies? You could always devote more time to them. Would that help?"

"Perhaps," he mused. "I used to draw a lot more. I used to compose. You and I would go walking, do things together, read...you used to read more. I used to collect specimens, do research..."

Now it was Victoria's turn to shrug a little. "Children," she said simply. Victor gave her another squeeze.

"Indeed," he said quietly.

0—0

The next morning Victor woke refreshed. It was the best he'd slept in weeks. The sun, though weak and pale as always, was out, lending a bit of cheerfulness. Victoria was still by his side when he woke, which added even more cheerfulness. They exchanged good mornings, rose, and dressed—as a joint activity, something they'd not done in quite some time. Years. It was almost like the very early days of their marriage. Even down to heading downstairs arm in arm.

The children were up and breakfasting when Victor and Victoria entered the dining room. Yesterday seemed to have been completely forgotten. Lydia didn't have her cane, and Anne's bruise, though still a mottled purple, was no longer swollen. Taking his seat, Victor noticed a folded fan on the table at Catherine's elbow.

"You found it, then?" he asked, nodding at it. Unruffled, as though she'd not attempted to pop her sister in the mouth over it the previous evening, she nodded.

"I'd left it in the parlor," she said, being careful of her lip as she tucked into a bun. "Anne found it for me."

"Ah."

And that was that. Everyone ignored Lydia's snort and shake of the head. Down the table, Victor and Victoria shared another one of those small, intimate smiles.

_A promising start, _Victor thought, taking a sip of tea. He hoped it would stay that way.

Midway through the meal the post arrived, Alice bringing it in on a salver. A small card went to Victoria, and the rest to Victor.

"Your mother says for you to behave yourself in future, Victor dear," Victoria said, scanning the card. She glanced up. "She thinks a donation to the local hospital fund might go a long way to-" here she paused and looked down, and then read directly from the card- "_stopping dreadful rumors and making certain you can show yourself in public again within the next year._ And please telephone her."

"Noted," Victor said carelessly, going through the rest of the mail. At the bottom was the lepidoptery society's quarterly journal, which he had delivered. He scanned the contents. Moths. Migration routes. The same species mentioned over and over. The same three writers. Victor had to wonder whether he was the only subscriber.

"Is there anything interesting?" Anne asked, leaning over to peek. Victor shook his head.

"Same as always," he told her, handing the journal over and feeling disproportionately disappointed. He watched as Anne flipped through the pages. She always liked to read it, even though most of the Latin and scientific terminology were beyond her nine-year-old comprehension skills. She also liked it when there were photo reproductions. Done riffling, she handed it back, and he set it on the table before him. And stared at it.

"Is something wrong?" Victoria asked, concern furrowing her brow a little. Victor shook himself.

"Not at all," he assured her, plastering a smile on his face and poking idly at his eggs. He kept looking at the society journal as he did so, an idea beginning to form. The more he thought, the better he felt. Energized.

"Butterfly gardens!" he exclaimed, making everyone jump. He glanced around the table. "Sorry. Just an idea. Where's a—hm. Excuse me, please." Victor stood and nearly dashed from the room, not wanting to lose his train of thought before he could write anything down.

"Is Father all right?" he heard Lydia ask as he loped his way to the study.

_I am better than all right, _he thought happily, finding a pen and a loose bit of paper on the desk. Butterfly gardens. An article on plants and attracting certain species. As far as he knew it had not been done in this journal before.

Yes. With a flourish, he finished his quickly jotted notes, and then regarded the chickenscratched lines with a certain pride. There it was. His project. Something new to do. But he'd need his little assistant. Perhaps the bigger ones, too, provided they were interested.

Grinning, sketchpad and notebook in hand, Victor made his way back to the dining room, dangerously close to cheerful. He felt...good. Uncomplicated.

Thank goodness Mary was in brown today.

**THE END.**

**0—0**

**0—0**

Dear Readers:

At long last, here's the end of "Victor's Daughters." I hope it doesn't disappoint, wraps it all up, and is all-around a satisfactory ending. I'm aware that my style has evolved a bit since I left this story, and I hope that the changes aren't too noticeable or jarring. I tried to remain consistent with the style/ideas/characterizations of the original, but the mood just seemed to go where it ended up going after I tried to convince it to do otherwise. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but I don't think I'll be doing any changes or updates to this story after this. Many thanks to everyone who answered the call for ideas—I really appreciated the help! Again, hope it's not disappointing, as so many of you asked for this.

PlayerPiano


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